


Supercut

by FormerBunhead



Series: The Fox & Flea [1]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Multi, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27219055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormerBunhead/pseuds/FormerBunhead
Summary: He was right: it did pass. For both of them.But what happens when they run into each other four years later?
Relationships: Claire & Fleabag (Fleabag), Fleabag & Priest (Fleabag), Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Series: The Fox & Flea [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012479
Comments: 94
Kudos: 80





	1. I’ll Be Seeing You Wherever I Go

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE! This got so long it became a series, which is now called The Fox & Flea. Supercut is now the title of the first part, and chapter titles in this section are all lyrics from Lorde's 2017 album "Melodrama." Given his well-documented taste in pop music, my brain decided that's what the Priest listened to on a loop for a month after he broke things off with Fleabag.
> 
> This is my first-ever fan fiction. Please be gentle!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can run, but you can't hide forever.

A slightly blustery autumn day in a London neighborhood. It’s recently rained.

From a ways off, we see a man step out onto a front stoop. He’s wearing low-key running gear: hoodie, trackies, trainers. He has sport headphones, not fancy ones, around his neck.

He hooks the headphones onto his ears, makes a few gestures at stretching. He hits play on his phone and takes off jogging.

We get a good look at him now: the Priest.

His running mix revs up as he weaves his way through the city. He always starts with ["Rollercoaster" by Bleachers](https://open.spotify.com/track/5L95vS64rG1YMIFm1hLjyZ). He exhales with each footfall, in sync with the music. He’s not breathing heavily though; he’s a regular runner.

He exits a park to continue along the sidewalk in a busy neighborhood, passing shops with a few people going in and out. He dodges dog walkers and mums with babies, but it’s not crowded. He can keep pace.

He rounds another corner onto a quieter block and glances across the way, checking for traffic.

Double-take.

There’s a tall woman on the other side of the street wearing a denim jacket and a bag across her body. She’s facing away from him, trotting down the block. We hear her over the music: “Claire!” she shouts, admonishing but giddy with laughter. “Claire, no, I’ve told you -”

She’s chasing a small child who is just out of reach, laughing too.

His jaw tightens just a bit. His pace slows. Just a bit.

It’s her. He knows it. He doesn’t need to see her face. The voice, the neck, the spikes of her shoulders are enough.

He can see the child’s face, though, as she turns to look back at the woman.

He’s an inexperienced judge of kids’ ages, but even he can do the mental math in two seconds flat.

He knows it. We see it in his eyes.

We catch up with him a few blocks later, back in the park. He’s cooling down, walking quickly. Hands on hips. Looking very much like he’s going to be sick.

We flash back: Priest in a cassock undone at the neck, bottle of whiskey in his hand, bewildered, drunk. “Oh my God! I thought you were just in my head, then! But, I mean, you were in my head then. But now you’re there!”

In the flashback, the woman from the street looks at him in amused concern. “You okay, Father?”

Back in the present, a quick shake of his head, a grim smile, fox teeth bared. He can’t believe this.

We complete the flashback: “Fuck you, calling me Father, like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.” Then we get brief cuts of intimacy from the past - some we’ve seen before, some we haven’t. Use your imagination.

Back to the present. He’s puffing out his cheeks and exhaling hard, shaking out his hands. He stops to stretch at the park exit, closing his eyes as he braces himself against the fence. The music has slowed down and is trailing off.

“Shit,” he says, barely audible, when he’s done. He keeps walking, shaking his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on context and process!
> 
> I'm a 40 year old mom with a busy career who's always liked creative writing. So when I hit that inevitable point in COVID quarantine when I began to question my own sanity, I had a clear choice: murder my entire family, quit my job, or spend all my free time writing about the characters I fell in love with during repeated re-watches of Fleabag. I went with the latter.
> 
> In my heart, I know that Fleabag & the Priest's story ended when he walked away from her at the end of S2. It was the perfect conclusion to a perfect show, even though it wasn't the one I wanted. But there was a little itch in my brain that wouldn't let up. I wanted to play with the idea of what would happen if they ran into each other again after years of healing, growth, and - in some cases - regression. So I scratched the itch and here we are.
> 
> I structured this work so that, at first, it's akin to a film treatment. We are the viewers who are watching these events unfold from the outside, and we don't know a lot about what's going on in anyone's head or heart. [There's even a soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ljWLTXLNNiI8oMt7to5X5)! As the story goes on, we're immersed in the Priest's mindset, as well as Claire's. We almost never get Fleabag's perspective or inner monologue, because I wanted to respect her decision to leave us behind at the end of S2.
> 
> PS: I've read some other fics on this platform and it cracks me up how many of us decided the Priest had become a runner. There's just no other way to burn off all that pent-up sexual tension and desire!


	2. Let Things Come Out of the Woodwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not, I repeat, _do not_ fuck with Claire.

His curiosity is the kind of itch that only intensifies when you scratch it. But he can’t stay away.

The woman and child are there every time he runs by. Same day of the week: Sunday. Same time: 8 in the morning.

He’s torturing himself.

It’s definitely her. She never sees him, he’s always sure to stay just out of her line of sight. Expressionless, observing.

They’re sitting in front of a cafe sharing biscuits. They’re walking hand in hand, pulling faces at each other. The woman is lifting the girl up into a piggyback. The woman is half-listening to the child while doing something on her phone.

Then one morning, someone else is there at the cafe with the woman and child. Claire, the sister. She looks up at exactly the right moment. Or the wrong moment, depending.

She registers him. Stares. Her lips are set in a thin line, her eyes fierce. God she’s terrifying.

He blinks first. “Shit,” he says under his breath, and continues on, trying to shake it off.

* * *

Another day, another jog. He’s a block away from his usual sighting when someone steps into the path in front of him.

He nearly goes down, stumbling as he yanks off his headphones, hooking them around his neck. We hear a tinny version of “Roller Coaster” playing out as he turns to see who tripped him up.

“Hello.” He never knew a greeting could be scathing, but she manages it.

He plasters on a smile, like this is a delightful reunion. Love getting ambushed by a complicated ex’s sister, years after the fact! So fun! “Claire. Hi! I, wow, how are -”

“Shut up.” Clearly, she doesn’t have time for his charming bullshit. “Sit down.” She gestures towards the bench behind them.

He half-heartedly feigns regret. “Oh I’d love to, it’s just that I’m out for a run.”

She sits down firmly and stares at him in Claire.

He sighs. Looks up, squints, hands on hips. Plops down next to her on the bench, resigned.

She sighs too, exasperated. Sucks in her cheeks. “You bastard. I really cannot tell you -”

Him, hands up, backing off: “Whoa, I’m not sure what’s happening, but -”

She stares daggers at him until he blinks. Quietly, determinedly, simply: “Leave her alone.”

He exhales, rubbing his thumbs together, an old habit. “I’m not -”

“You are. You absolutely are,” she interrupts, looking surprised that he would dare contradict her. “Why I don’t know, it’s been years. But please disappear again, promptly.”

He can’t keep the small, sad smile from his lips. We get a brief flashback to a bus stop: “I love you too.” A tear tracking down his cheek. His perspective this time as he walks away, fighting it, not looking back, shattered. Disappearing.

Claire is imperious. “I said promptly.”

He starts to get up, then reconsiders. This is all rather painful, but he’s strangely not ready to call an end to it.

He’s also not sure he wants to know what comes next. But he goes for it.

“Her name’s Claire?”

“Whose?” she asks testily. Then she realizes he’s seen the child. “Oh. Yes. Claire.”

“Named after you, then.”

“Yes.” A few beats. She’s sizing him up. “And after her father.”

He wasn’t expecting that. “Her father?”

She purses her lips and looks around fussily. “Yes. Klare.”

At this point, he’s hopelessly lost. “You’re talking in circles.”

“Klare is my husband,” she says, slowly, as if he’s an idiot.

He now notices the giant rock perched on her ring finger, but it doesn’t help. He’s several layers deep in utter confusion. “But aren’t you… what about Martin?”

She looks surprised. “Long gone. I thought you’d’ve heard,” she says. He shakes his head, eyes wide. “Right. Okay. Well, Klare, with a K, was my colleague from Finland. Is my colleague from Finland. He’s, um, why I left Dad’s wedding early. I went and found him, and not long after that, well…”

Realization is dawning. “You had a baby.”

She looks a bit embarrassed and also immensely pleased. “Yes.”

The fox grin starts spreading across his face, unbidden, as he figures it out. “And you, Claire... and your husband, Klare… named your baby… Claire?”

A long pause. She nods.

He explodes into manic laughter. Our first glimpse of the full burst of charm and delight from him.

“It’s not that funny.” She smiles tightly, glancing around to see if he’s causing a scene.

He can’t stop laughing. “It is! It’s very funny! Klare Junior! _Claire_ Junior!”

Claire is resisting a genuine smile now. “It’s not that weird, we call her Cece. Well, except Phoebe, she thinks it’s fucking hysterical -” She stops abruptly. Then, acquiescing: “Phoebe calls her Claire. She’s the only one allowed.”

The smile wipes itself off his face in an instant. “I know. I heard her one day.”

Claire rolls her eyes, clearly thinking _stalker_. Then looks at him for a long moment, past the point of our comfort. Realizing.

“Oh. Right. You thought -”

He’s pretty embarrassed and tries to play it off. “No, I just - maybe…?”

She’s piecing it together. “No,” she says sharply. Then, more gently: “I’m sorry, no.” She looks uncertain as to whether apologizing was the right thing to do.

He takes a breath and lets it out in a whoosh. It’s all gone a bit awkward. Naturally.

“I’m really pleased for you, Claire,” he says, guileless. She smiles in spite of herself. Then, mischief creeps into his features. “And Klare,” he adds. “And Claire!”

She can’t stop the smile now, then seems to resolve something. She turns to look at him, officious once again. “I do need you to leave Phoebe alone.”

His response is swift and rather more petulant than he intends: “I know. I will. Jesus.” A beat, looking off. “I know.” Full of meaning.

Claire looks appalled. “Oh no. No thank you. No one wants _your feelings_ about this.” She goes in for the kill, all clipped, repressed rage. “Everyone had forgotten about you. She had forgotten about you. You disappeared. So stay gone.”

She gets right in his face. “Run. Somewhere. Else.”

She stands abruptly, shouldering her purse. He automatically joins her. She thrusts her hand straight out towards him and he takes it, matching her seriousness, maybe mocking it just a bit.

She looks away, crossing her arms. “Goodbye, Father.”

The awkwardness returns. He’s been waiting for this but now isn’t sure he should actually say it.

“Oh, I… no need for…” A beat as he searches. “Please. Andrew’s fine.”

They look at each other. Her brow is furrowed. He’s grimacing a bit.

Then, she understands.

She slaps him across the face, _very_ hard, and marches away.

He stands there as his cheek reddens, babying it with the back of one hand. A brief flashback to Phoebe’s head knocking against his in the restaurant as she reeled from Martin’s punch, the two of them comparing injuries outside the bathroom, so new to each other, him showing off his black eye at church.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “This fucking family.”

He’s moving toward the park now. A welt is rising on his cheek. Her massive ring must’ve gotten him. A few people glance at him oddly as he passes.

He’s looking ahead. Not exactly smiling, but not exactly _not_ smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, the Priest is named Andrew and Fleabag is called Phoebe (per PWB's indication that Fleabag was her own childhood nickname - a bastardization of Phoebe). I use them infrequently and very deliberately, however, because proper names seem to hold a lot of mysterious power in the Fleabag universe.


	3. The Only Love I Haven’t Screwed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody... meet Knit Cap. Knit Cap... everybody.

Later that day, Claire and Phoebe are in their father’s kitchen, chopping vegetables on either side of the island. A child’s voice can be heard from the other room, along with those of indulgent grandparents. 

Claire glances up at Phoebe several times, gauging her mood. Deliberating. 

Finally, Phoebe puts down the knife. “What.”

Claire looks startled. She starts to say something, thinks better of it. Keeps chopping. 

Phoebe raises her eyebrows. Resumes her own knife work, slowly, keeping half an eye on her sister. “You’ve been acting weird all day. Out with it.” 

Claire starts busily assembling vegetables in a roasting dish. She won’t meet Phoebe’s eye. “It’s nothing.”

Phoebe snorts. “I know every variety of twitchy Claire. But this” - she stabs a carrot slice and bites it off, then points with her knife across the island - “is a new one. Very dodgy. Don’t like it.” 

Claire takes a sip of wine in what she must admit is a twitchy move. She shoves the roasting pan in the oven and stands up with her arms crossed tightly around her middle. “Fine. This morning, I -” 

There’s a sudden commotion outside the kitchen door. Klare tumbles through with an armful of grocery sacks, followed by a very tall blonde woman in a knit cap with a twinkly grin and an enormous bouquet of flowers. They’re red-cheeked from the cold and laughing. Claire and Phoebe make eye contact, pleased.

Klare trots around the island and kisses Claire on the neck. She bops him away, pretending to be scandalized. “Where is my Cece-bear?” he thunders as he drops the bags on the counter, making his way into the other room to his daughter’s squeals. 

Knit Cap is casting about for a place to put the flowers, and Phoebe drops her knife to help. She pulls down a vase. Claire finds some shears to snip the stems and watches the two of them appraisingly.

“Hello,” Phoebe says, grinning like a maniac as she fills the vase with water. 

“Hi,” Knit Cap says, grinning as well. 

“These are lovely.” Phoebe nods her head at the flowers. 

“Didn’t want to come empty handed,” Knit Cap says, a shy smile. 

They kiss. It’s very new. She’s wonderful. Phoebe likes her loads. Everyone does. Claire does, and she’s hated all of Phoebe’s ill-advised love interests. 

Well, almost all.

Claire clears her throat and wipes her hands on her apron. “Fleabag,” she says, “can you finish in here? I’ve set the timer for the veg, and -”

“Oh,” Phoebe says, weaving herself around Knit Cap’s waist so she’s cradled beneath her arm. Claire can tell that it gives her towering sister a thrill to be even a little dwarfed by someone else. “You were - did you want to finish that conversation? About how weird and twitchy you are?” 

Claire considers for half a beat. Then smiles her most genuine smile, no tightness in it at all, because there’s no tightness in her sister or this very kind woman she’s standing next to. “Tell you later,” she says, and drops her apron onto a chair before exiting to her family. Her people. 

As she leaves, she hears Knit Cap say, “Did she call you Fleabag?” Followed by laughter and the beginnings of the story of the family nickname, kitchen tools clanking in the background, groceries being put away. Claire smiles, a bit of the tightness back around her eyes, and keeps walking.


	4. We Told You This Was Melodrama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is awkward.

He stays away.

He barely even thinks about it. It’s easy. Years worth of forgetting, finally paying off.

We catch up with him walking down a busy block in a chic London neighborhood. It’s early winter now, dusk.

He’s not wearing running clothes this time, though: today our man is straight out of GQ. Selvedge denim, Chelsea boots, tweed coat with the collar up, gray scarf. The whole shebang. His hair is longer and sort of intentionally messy, a bit of gray in it. There’s stubble involved.

It’s all rather intense.

He’s looking at his phone and up at buildings, trying to find someplace. Vaguely aware of the way a knot of women leer as they pass him on the sidewalk. He gives them half a fox grin, for the hell of it.

Then, a sudden shout from the other direction: “Oh, Jesus.”

He looks up.

She’s there. Just there. A few feet in front of him.

Along with her family, clustered around her. All of them.

He recovers quickly. “Not Jesus. Honest mistake, though.” Fox grin.

She looks like she’s dying 17 different deaths in the span of three seconds. At least ten of them are because he’s so fucking fine.

He allows himself a moment of satisfaction.

She recovers quickly, too, though. “Our Lord and Savior does love a natty scarf,” she fires back, big grin, eyebrow quirk.

There’s no chance for them to connect beyond the quip, even if they wanted to. Her godmother, Caroline, swoops in. “Can this be our priest? Heavens, I never would have recognized you, darling!” She kisses him lavishly on both cheeks. He’s overwhelmed but goes with it. “Gosh you look devastating!”

Minor chaos ensues. As a husky blond fellow pulls him into a bear hug and pounds him on the back (this must be Klare, he thinks), our man makes eye contact with Claire. She’s standing apart from the crowd, little girl attached to her leg.

He makes a face at Claire like, _What the fuck am I supposed to do here._ She smiles a bit too benevolently. She’s going to let him squirm, he realizes. Shit.

He manages to disentangle himself from all the enthusiasm. Slaps a grin back onto his face. “Wow. It’s lovely to see you all. What are the odds. Wow.”

He suddenly notices the extraordinarily tall blonde woman standing next to Phoebe. One of Klare’s relatives, maybe? She’s looking at him curiously. He smiles. She smiles. Huh.

He clears his throat and avoids Phoebe’s eyes. “You look well. You all do. Wow, wow. Where are you all, um, off to?” He involuntarily glances up at the building they’re standing in front of.

Phoebe follows his gaze. “Family dinner. The Claires” - she barely suppresses a laugh, he looks down to stop himself from following suit - “are moving. Finland.”

He forces himself to look interested. “Oh lovely! Congratulations!” His heart is going like crazy, he’s casting about for a way to deflect. He zeroes in on her dad, who’s been standing off to the side muttering pleasantries. “Just keep a sharp eye out, sir, this crowd in a restaurant, you know… ”

Everyone chuckles, only a little uncomfortable, a little rueful. It was a long time ago.

A beat of awkward silence. Caroline breaks it up with more of her patented fawning: “Oh well you must join us, Father! If only to commemorate that fascinating chapter in our family history. Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

He hesitates. Locks eyes with Phoebe. She’s recovered from her previous hotness-induced demise and now looks as though she’s smelled something unpleasant. Yikes.

“I couldn’t,” he finally says. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. Besides, I’m meeting someone here as well.”

Utter silence. It goes on way too long, even when he breaks out the fox grin.

“Business dinner,” he says quickly. “Priest stuff, you know how it is.” He shakes his head at himself - where the fuck did that come from?

The family plays along, relieved laughter. Claire looks disgusted and swings the little girl up onto her hip. The blonde woman’s eyes are huge with amusement. “Priest stuff?” Phoebe mouths. He shrugs helplessly.

Dad (was his name Bill? Or Phil? Our man can’t recall) gestures at the restaurant. “Well, erm. Shall we… Might as well…” There’s general agreement, and the family all start up the stairs.

Phoebe gives him an almost indifferent wave as they go, which sucks in a way he wasn’t anticipating. Also, she’s holding the blonde woman’s hand now. Okay. Wow. Got it. He raises his hand back at her.

Caroline trails behind to embrace him again, cupping his face. “We must get together sometime. You really do look good enough to eat.” She flutters her fingers at him as she walks away.

Then, a voice murmurs from his periphery: “Couldn’t agree more.” An arm circles his body from behind.

Shit. No. He closes his eyes briefly. This is an actual nightmare.

He turns his head and is caught with a kiss on his cheek. He relaxes into the embrace for the briefest hint of second, then turns so they’re close but not touching.

Our man looks at him. Marco. Tall, dark, handsome. Fuck.

“You’re early,” he says, with forced lightness, glancing at a non-existent watch.

“For once,” Marco says, laughing. To Caroline, whose eyes have gone wide with delight: “Hi there.” He raises a casual hand at the crew on the stairs, frozen mid-gawk.

“OH.” Caroline takes a step back with her hands over her mouth. “Oh! Well done, darling!” Shit, she is _living_ for this. “Now I see why you didn’t return my calls about our annual vow renewals. You’ve been busy, haven’t you. _Naughty_.”

Christ. He can already hear her introducing him as her very intriguing friend who used to be a PRIEST and is now a PRACTICING HOMOSEXU--

He snaps out of it. Steals a glance up at the stairs. Phoebe looks like a very confused cat who caught the canary and now doesn’t know what to do with it. In the end it’s the confusion that takes over her face.

Bit hypocritical, actually, he thinks, considering the way she has the blonde woman’s hand in a death grip. It’s a petty thought, but then, he can be a petty person when he’s caught out. To be fair, she can too.

Next to Phoebe, Claire is made of stone. She cuts her eyes at her sister, decides something, and hands the little girl off to Klare. She marches down the stairs. “Right,” she announces. “Everyone. Go inside, start without me. I’ll handle this.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to handle, darling,” Caroline says, condescending. She looks between him and Marco again. “You must join us and share your story. And you! Has anyone ever painted your portrait?” She manages to make it sound exquisitely filthy, eyes glittering with greed as she assesses Marco from head to toe. He indulges her with a smile and a slight bow.

Our man, meanwhile, gives Marco his craziest crazy eyes, silently willing him to put an end to this fiasco. Marco expertly morphs his smile into a frown. “I’m so sorry, we really can’t. Next time.”

Caroline pouts magnificently, clucks her tongue, blows a lazy kiss at them. She drifts up the stairs to where the rest of the family is entering the restaurant.

Our man exhales and lets his forehead rest on Marco’s shoulder. Marco clears his throat. Abruptly, he remembers that Claire is still outside, only a few feet away from them.

He dares to look up. She’s an ice sculpture. Okay then. This is the end, this is how he goes.

“Don’t you dare come into this restaurant,” she hisses, barely moving her mouth.

Marco stiffens. “Now hold on.”

Claire puts a hand up at Marco. “This is really nothing to do with you. Begging your pardon.” Marco puts his hands up in return, standing down. He shifts a few steps away and starts scrolling through his phone, clearly listening but giving space. He’s good like that.

Claire immobilizes our man with her gaze. For fuck’s sake. One entire side of his body has gone numb. Is this what a stroke feels like, he wonders? Or is he just scared shitless?

“Go. Away.” She says it quietly.

Marco looks up. Our man closes his eyes again. “Claire. It’s okay. We both…” He gestures between himself and the restaurant door. “We both seem fine. We’re adults. It’s been an age.”

She takes several quick steps towards him. Before he can stop himself, he flinches hugely, stumbles back, hands blocking his face.

A beat.

“What on earth is wrong with you,” she accuses, incredulous.

“Wrong with _me_?” He takes a deep breath, and it’s like a switch flips. “I dunno, maybe it’s that after four fucking years, you’re constantly trapping me on sidewalks? And yelling at me? And” - he fishes - “slapping me?”

He runs his hand through his hair. He’s pretty worked up.

“I wasn’t planning on slapping anyone, but we can certainly arrange it,” she fumes. “Especially because, yet again, you’ve shown up with your fucking drama and your sad eyes and your cool fucking hair. I mean it looks _amazing_.”

“Thank you,” he mutters. It does look amazing.

She won’t be side-tracked. “And now you’re out here flaunting your total lack of holy _fucking_ vows. Your _fucking_ boyfriend.” An aside to Marco: “I’m sorry, you seem very nice.” He nods, unperturbed, because he really is just that nice.

Claire wraps up her tirade. “I was perfectly clear. Leave her alone.”

Our man is frantic now, hands out, beseeching. “I did! I fucking did, Claire. Oh God, this is a disaster. Am I dead? Is this hell?” He’s shouting at the sky, pacing, hands in his hair.

It all feels really damn good. Throwing a tantrum, taking it up to eleven, feeling everything out loud. He hasn’t done this in ages.

Marco pockets his phone. “Okay, I think… for everyone’s sake…” He takes our man gently by the shoulder. “It was good to meet you, Claire, was it?” She nods, unable to completely abandon decorum in the face of such impeccable manners. “Have a lovely dinner.”

He begins to herd our man away. “We’ll just go round the corner. There’s a pub.”

Our man is still melting down quite spectacularly. “No, but. Everyone’s coming _here_ , we can’t just -”

Marco’s arm goes around him. “Sure we can. I’ll text them. Come on.”

He glares back at her as they walk away. Claire watches them go.

Then: “ _Fuck_ you, Andrew!” she bursts out. She looks a bit surprised at herself, noticing people around her staring, but still pleased that she did it.

He immediately whirls and fires back. “Oh fuck you, too, Claire!” Ooh, yeah, this is the stuff. He’s smiling wildly, walking backwards, looking at her, arms spread wide, manic. Fox powers fully activated. “Why don’t you leave _me_ alone, for once. _Claire_.”

She flips him not one but two birds and stomps inside.

Now it’s just the two of them, walking in the sudden quiet. Marco laughs nervously, a little wary, also intrigued. “Wow,” he says. “I don’t know that I’ve seen you get quite that fired up before. Was that…?”

Our man focuses in on him as they round the bend. Blood still crashing through his brain in waves. It's like he’s burning alive.

He makes a split-second decision. Stops walking, pushes Marco against the wall, kisses him hard, teeth jarring together, hands clutching Marco’s neck, his jaw. He pulls back. They stare at each other, dizzy with pheromones. A softer kiss, this time, no break in eye contact.

A long beat.

Marco lists his head towards the restaurant. “So it was her.”

Our man looks down, smiling sheepishly, the wind gone out of his sails. He unpins Marco from the wall and leans next to him, both gazing out at the street, then at each other. “That obvious?”

Marco cracks up, breaking the tension. “Mate, I thought you were a dead man.”

Our man makes a face, waves a hand towards the restaurant, banishing the thought. “She’s all talk.”

Marco tilts his head, teasing. “Didn't I catch that she slapped you?”

Our man turns towards him, leaning with one shoulder on the wall, sassy, getting worked up again. “Listen, they’re violent, that family. I should get a restraining order. Christ!”

A beat. They look at each other. Our man, playing it off: “Ah, fuck them. Drink?”

Marco raises an eyebrow. Our man bats him away.

They walk hand in hand into the pub.


	5. When You See Me, Will You Say I’ve Changed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they're off...

A few hours later, our man comes out the back door of the pub into the alley, already lighting a cigarette nicked from the bartender with matches palmed from a table. 

He’s just in his button-neck jumper now, and it’s gotten cold. He bounces a bit on his toes as he smokes, looking up at the sky. Breathing evenly. Closing his eyes. 

At peace. Ish.

A ways down the lot, another door bangs open. A tall woman comes through, light flooding into the alley, followed by another woman, blonde. The energy they bring into the night is frenetic. They’re snogging like mad. 

He looks around like, is this a fucking joke? Cosmic hidden camera? Casts his gaze at the sky. Unbelievable. 

He’s about to drop his cigarette and grind it out when he hears soft laughter. They’ve finished kissing, they’re chatting now, close, familiar. Phoebe’s leaning against the wall, her head tilted back, holding the other woman by the lapels of her jacket. 

We can see from our man’s face that he’s bottoming out a bit. 

The blonde woman presses a kiss close to Phoebe’s ear before opening the door. “Don’t be long,” he hears her say. She wags a finger sternly. “Only one. You promised.” 

“God. Taskmaster.” Phoebe is grinning. 

“You’ve no idea,” says the blonde woman, going back inside.

“I think I do, actually,” Phoebe calls after her, cheeky. She stares into the sky for a beat. She’s radiant. 

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. Keeps digging around for a moment. “Shit,” he hears her say. 

She looks around at the ground, then up. Spots him and the telltale orange embers of a lit cigarette. 

He’d meant to run, but there’s no time.

“Oh hey!” she says, friendly, thwacking the box top against her hand. “Sorry. D’you have a light?” 

She trots towards him, eager, fitting a cigarette between her teeth. She clearly doesn’t know it’s him. She’s messing with the pack as she tries to close it, put it back in her bag. “Thank God. No idea where my lighter -” 

Well. She certainly sees him now. She looks terrified. Deer in headlights terrified, naked at school terrified. Running into the ex-priest you used to be in love with terrified. 

He tries to breathe. Holds up his cigarette, a weak toast. “Fellow smoker,” he manages. 

He thinks he’s played it cool. Yeah, this is fine. Everything’s fine. 

“SHIT,” she says, right into his face, expelling the cigarette from her mouth onto the pavement.

Okay, maybe not fine. 

As always, though, she quickly schools her features. Picks up the cigarette slowly, giving herself time. Nothing to see here, just two cool, cool cucumbers. 

(The fact that they used to sleep together is a non-issue! The last time they saw each other, when he dumped her at a bus stop and broke both their hearts, is the last thing on their minds! Everyone is feeling extremely nonchalant about a chance encounter in a dark alley that is eerily similar to the one where they had their first conversation! He is so totally fine with this!) 

A long beat as they look around, avoiding eye contact.

“Bit dramatic for my taste, all this,” she finally says, crinkling her nose sardonically, turning down the corners of her mouth. Making fun of herself.

The fucking nose crinkle. He’s got to get above water here. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but she waves her cigarette towards him. “D’you mind? Since we’re doing this.” 

He pulls out the matches and strikes one. His hands are stiff with cold and he drops it. “Bastard,” he mutters, feeling her smirk at him. 

He tries not to look at her as he fishes out another match. This one flares to life as he strikes it, the sharp angles of her face illuminated in the darkness as he touches it to the end of her cigarette. 

He’s breathing slowly. Using every element of his meditation practice. Praying a bit, even. 

“So, um,” he says, “what exactly is it we’re doing?” He gives her the eyebrows, trying to click on the charm, get it on a simmer at least.

She plops down on a pile of plastic crates next to the back door of the pub, gesturing for him to sit, too. “This.” 

He’s freezing cold. Marco’s waiting for him. In fact, he told Marco he was going to the loo, because Marco is virulently anti-tobacco. That’s why our man’s not wearing a coat. He doesn’t really smoke, anyway. Except when he does. 

She must be able to see that he’s conflicted. She rolls her eyes. “For God’s sake. I don’t bite.” 

Well, that’s a lie, but he eases himself down onto a stack of crates anyway. Not the one closest to her, which she notices. Her gaze is mocking, triumphant even. He doesn’t remember her being this self-assured, and it’s throwing him. 

He decides to crack a joke. “It’s just that I was nearly assaulted by one member of your family already tonight.”

She laughs, surprised and a little delighted. “Who, my sister?” He nods, smiling. “Aw, such a brick. She’s going to murder someone one day, using only her eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s how she got me!” he says, enthusiastically. She laughs.

They both smoke for a bit. “Going to miss her, I guess,” he says finally. 

“Christ. Yeah. I am. I actually am.” She chuckles. “Things are different now. You’d like her.” 

He’s both taken aback and amused. “I mean, I always liked Claire. But it really could not be any clearer that she hates _my_ guts.” 

She smiles into her cigarette and studies the ground, toeing at something. “The big secret to Claire is that hate is actually her love language,” she says. “The more pissed off she is, the more she cares.” 

He laughs. “She must be fucking crazy about me, then,” he says. She pulls a face, like _fair point_.

Another few beats as they smoke. “Bit weird, this,” he says, for lack of anything else.

“Eh. Thought it’d be _much_ weirder,” she says, ashing her cigarette casually. Disparaging. Deadpan. 

They lock eyes for a minute. Neither of them can stop a smile that they immediately try to hide. 

Another beat. 

“She’s cute,” he says, gesturing, at the same moment she motions towards the pub door and says, “He seems _lovely_.”

Awkward. 

She recovers first. “Didn’t think she was your type,” she smirks. 

He scrambles as calmly as possible. “Oh, I… meant Claire’s little girl. Adorable.” Making a bit of a _yikes_ face at her, like it was her mistake.

She doesn’t take the bait. “Oh yeah. An angel, that one. Love of my fucking life.” Her eyes flick to him, she takes another drag on her cigarette. “You’ll never believe what they named her.” 

He smiles. He has one up on her, finally, but decides not to play that card yet. Interested: “Really? What?”

She just looks at him, waiting for him to catch up, a smile playing on her lips.

He lets surprise and realization creep onto his face. “Noooo. They didn’t.” He’s nailing this. 

“They did.” 

A beat. Cold breaths of astonishment from both of them, then sudden, outrageous laughter. God, it feels good. 

He finally stops himself. “Not Claire,” he manages, helpless, and they both snort again.

A few moments pass as they smoke and come down from their giggle-fit. He decides something. 

“I actually already knew that,” he says. Looks at her frankly. 

She looks back, appraising. “I know,” she says. “Claire told me.” She looks away and keeps smoking.

“Oh,” he says. He doesn’t know what else to say. There’s nothing. 

She stands up and stubs out her cigarette. Clutches her coat around her and looks towards the door. “I should go back inside,” she says. “I promised I’d only have one.” She looks back at him. “Trying to quit.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Me too,” he says. “Well… I never really started. But” - he gestures at her with the cigarette, another toast - “in case of emergency...” 

Her eyes go a bit panicked. He realizes he’s made out that she caused an emergency. 

Well, why bother pretending otherwise. Sod it. He rubs his face, another old habit, beyond caring. 

She gazes at him, then turns and starts walking away, slowly. “I really do have to go,” she says over her shoulder. “Lovely catching up.”

He scoffs. “Fuck you, then,” he says after her, before he can think about what he’s saying. She stops. “Yeah, nice running into you. Good talk. _So_ normal.” 

He’s just building up into a low boil when she turns around. “Right,” she says quietly, pacing over a few steps. “Go back inside.” 

He scoffs again. Fuck this, he’s not about to be scolded when _she’s_ the one who made him sit down on crates. When did she get so bossy, anyway? It’d be kind of hot if it weren’t so annoying.

She’s not done though. “Get a drink. Meet me back here in 10.”

He could not look more astonished if he tried. “What?” he says. 

The air between them has changed, but he suddenly clocks that it’s not because she’s flirting. She’s furious. 

“Make an excuse. I won’t... There are things to say, Andrew.” She holds his gaze, even when he tries to evade hers, and he swallows hard. 

She starts walking away again. “Text if you’ll be longer than quarter past.” 

He’s gobsmacked. She said his name. She’s seething. She’s feeling things too. 

He scrambles. Say anything, you bastard. 

“I don’t have your number,” he calls after her.

“Fucking do,” she says without turning around, as she opens the door and disappears inside. 

He stares after her. He laughs, a little hysterically. He takes out his phone and scrolls slowly through the contacts. 

There it is. Still, after all these years, just the way she typed it in as they lay tangled up together on the morning of her father’s wedding. _Fleabag_. 

He shakes his head, puts out his cigarette, and walks inside.


	6. I Know That It’s Exciting, Running Through the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you really a grown-up unless you have a gigantic cat who hates you?

Back in the alley, later. He’s freezing his tits off, even with a coat and scarf. He puts down the lager he’s been holding and starts fumbling in his pocket for the matches and spare cigarette.

We see the following thoughts storm over his face as he lights up and smokes, pacing:

She’s making him wait. Fuck her.

He’s lied to Marco to get out here. That’s bad. He hates himself for it.

He hasn’t had this much nicotine in donkey’s years, and he’s starting to get the shakes. Fuck her for that, too. 

She called him Andrew. Fucking _Andrew_.

He’s completely at sea. He’s _never_ at sea anymore. He’s worked hard for his reliable, drama-free life, despite what Claire said earlier.

He does the inventory to ease his mind: Been to hell and back. Done all the healing work. Healthy now, sorted. Even-keeled, everyone says so. Kind, funny, handsome, mature. Eats sensibly. Runs daily. Has a real job. A flat in a nice neighborhood. An enormous cat who loathes him and loves Marco. 

He’s a grown up. He really is. Doesn’t need to prove it to himself, to anyone else, to her. He just is. 

Yet here he is pacing an alley at what would normally be bedtime, with a pint and a cigarette and adrenaline going like gangbusters. He hates this.

He also loves this. He knows he does. Or he wouldn’t have lied. 

Like us, he has to find out what happens next. 

He’s just deciding whether to text her or go back inside when the door to the other restaurant bangs open. He whirls. It’s her. 

She’s walking quickly, bundled up. 

She crooks her hand at him as she blows by. “Incoming,” she says. “Let’s go.” 

“Uh,” he says. Uncertain. “I have a drink though. From the pub.”

She’s impatient. “Bring it then. Come _on_.”

“You come on,” he spits, bewildered. “I’ve been waiting out here, freezing my ass off. Now we’re on a schedule?”

Her eye roll is full-body. “Are you coming?” A beat. “Or do you want to deal with Claire when she gets out here. Because that’s happening.”

He glances towards the door. It starts to open. 

They lock eyes. “Oh fuck,” he says. She grins. He returns it.

They run.


	7. Blow All My Friendships to Sit in Hell with You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expository chapter: our man has friends, Phoebe has a new career, and Hillary is the oldest surviving guinea pig of all time.

We meet up with them walking along the river. Still a bit out of breath, laughing. Looking at each other in wonder. A little shy. 

His heart is still going like mad. Oh, fuck this. 

She shakes it off first and points at his glass. “Beer? Really?” 

(Damn, the nostril flare she aims his way with those words. He wonders, not for the first time, how she gets her features to do so much work. How can a fucking _nose_ be so judgy yet warmly conspiratorial?! It’s one of her small miracles.)

“Yeah, well, I seem to have sloshed most of it out during our daring escape.” He peers into the glass, then dumps the dregs out along the path.

“Beer though.” She gives him the side-eye. “That’s new and different.” 

He looks for a recycle bin, spots one, jogs backward towards it while still talking to her. Projecting a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Lots of things are new and different, Phoebe.” 

He drops the glass into the bin, where it clanks loudly, then joins her back on the walkway.

“What was that for?” Her voice is casual to the point of apathy, which is how he knows it’s a put-on.

So he pretends he doesn’t notice, gesturing back towards the bin. “Oh, it’s glass, they’ll just put it in a landfill otherwise. You have to recycle it.” 

“No, I meant…” She shakes her head, amused. Makes a decision. “Strange. To hear you say my name.” 

He puts his hands in his pockets. Okay, we’re being honest. “I felt the same earlier.” 

She looks surprised and a bit bashful. “I don’t think I -” 

“You did,” he says, giving her the eyebrows. “You said, there are things to say, _Andrew_.” He infuses his voice with a melodramatic version of her quiet anger from before, overdoing it with the name bit. Nudges her on the path with his shoulder, cutely. 

Cor, but he’s a glutton for punishment. 

She’s silent, smiling faintly. They walk. 

He decides to go for it. “I actually… got the impression you were upset with me back there.” As if he can’t believe it, teasing. “I thought you were going to eat me alive. Like a praying mantis or something.” 

She lets out a surprised laugh, but it quickly turns bitter. “Did you.” 

Suddenly, there’s coldness coming off her in waves. Shit. He fucked it up. 

He’s about to scramble, try to salvage this. But she cuts him off, pain coming into her eyes. “Let’s just save that bit for later, actually, if you don’t mind.” 

“Okay,” he says breezily. But his brain starts doing way too many damn things at the same time. 

It’s asking, “Later? So we’re going to be doing this for a while? Whatever _this_ is?” 

It’s going, “Did she have those crinkle lines at the corners of her eyes before? Those are nice.” 

It’s saying, “This is madness. Go back to the pub, go back to Marco. Go home, you asshole.” 

And because his brain is short-circuiting, what he manages to spit out is: “How did you get out of there?” Incredulous.

She looks at him funnily, eyebrows lowered.

“The, uh, the restaurant. Where did you say you were going?” He’s earnest. He’s got to keep this moving. 

She smiles again. Good. His heart restarts. 

“Oh,” she says. “Just announced it, I guess. Told my girlfriend I needed to talk to you. She understood.” 

Like a fucking roller coaster. He’s completely reeling. What?! Who does that? 

“You know who did _not_ understand, though.” She gives him a meaningful look. 

He needs to calm down and get his head back in the fucking game here. “Um… could it be little Claire’s mum?”

She smiles in response.

“She’s very committed to your protection,” he says, in actual admiration. “A one-woman security detail.” 

She lifts her eyebrows. “Nah. She was just mad that I fucked up her going away party.” 

He laughs. 

“What about you?” she asks. “What was your excuse?”

He lets out a deep breath and looks up at the sky. All in, mate. 

“Ohhhhh, I said I needed an early night. Fuckin’ lied.” She looks surprised, then a bit impressed. “I’m just working my way through the sins now, you see. Hadn’t tried that one on yet.” A beat. “Not for awhile, anyway.” 

“Damn,” she says. “That poor man. You just left him there?”

He blows it off. “Pssssh. Nah. Bunch of our mates came out. They’ll have loads of fun without me.” 

She smiles hugely for the first time, all teeth. She puts her hand on his arm and he thinks he’s either going to puke or disintegrate. “You’ve got a bunch of mates?” 

He decides to give her the show, get back on the offensive. He pulls his arm away. “Oh God, don’t look so pleased for me. It’s humiliating.” A beat. “Footballers, mostly. Rowdy crew. Bros. Lots in common.”

She’s holding back laughter, he can tell. Can he push her over the edge? “Kidding. Raft of professors and social workers. Freelance writers, that sort of thing. Nerds, the lot of them.” 

She chortles. Got her. 

“Peas in a pod then,” she says affectionately. A few beats as they walk. She looks thoughtful. 

He suddenly realizes she’s on the verge of asking the big question, the only one that matters. 

He decides to follow his own curiosity before hers forces them out of this lovely, comfortable space. “Still have the cafe?” 

She resets, pushes her hair behind her ear. “Um, no. Sold it, actually. A while ago.” 

He goes wild-eyed, putting it on a bit but not really, he’s worried: “Oh no! With the guinea pig and all?” 

She looks appalled that he would even think such a thing. “No, never. Hillary has retired to the Claires’, for the baby.”

He snorts. “Your sister must hate that. The mess. The cuddles.” She laughs; it’s true. 

Deep breath, be brave, man. “So what are you doing then? For work?” 

She stares straight ahead. Then, after a beat: “Finance.” 

He stops walking. “No.” He puts his hands on his face.

She turns and smiles, a bit put out. “Yes.” 

He puts his hands on his knees and guffaws up at her. “Phoebe, NO. Nonononono!”

“Fuck off!” she laughs. “I’m good at it. It’s a career.”

“It’s a death sentence,” he gasps. “Ohhhhh Phoebe. You’re going to have to warn me next time. I did not see that coming.” He catches up with her and they keep walking. 

She’s eyeing him again. Here it comes. 

“And what is it that you do,” she starts, “in this get-up.” Indicating his clothing, quite witheringly.

He pretends to take minor offense. “This? Do I not look cool? I’m told I look cool.” 

She considers. “Mmm, more like you robbed an H&M.” He chuckles. They both know he didn’t get any of this kit in a high street department store. 

She looks him up and down. “I like the boots. Scarf really is a bit much though.” 

“Always did love a get-up,” he says, too lightly, before he can stop himself. She laughs awkwardly. Brief eye contact, followed by prolonged scanning of the skyline. 

“Really, Andrew,” she says after a moment. “What’s your job.”

He takes a deep breath. Gets a crazy idea. The fox grin sneaks up on him, then is out in full force. “Come on,” he says. “I'll show you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and several that follow were loosely inspired by Richard Linklater's film "Before Sunset," in which former lovers who haven't seen each other for years reconnect while wandering around a city together.


	8. What Will We Do When We're Sober?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty intense for a first official date but that's how these two roll.

“What the fuuuuuck?” she crows, looking around the restaurant where they’ve ended up. It’s a tiny box, dimly lit, sparsely decorated, kitchen right out in the open. It’s incredibly chic by virtue of not being chic at all. There are only six tables, and they’re seated at the one in the corner, his back to the room. 

“Wait, let me figure this out,” she says, looking across the table at him like she’s trying to read his mind, teasing. “You are.... some kind of.... mafioso restaurateur? Hang on: sommelier in training. No wait, it’s a BYO. Okay... I’ve got it now. Dish washer.” She screws up her face. “Are _any_ of these close?"

He ignores her questions and grins at the menu, which is small and handwritten on what looks like scrap paper. He points at a few different items. “You get this. I’ll get that. We can share.” 

She snatches the menu back. “What if I want something different?” She’s reading it greedily. “I mean, fuck, octopus?!” 

Yes, this was the right move, bringing her here. He puts his hand over hers. “Trust me,” he says. 

Leaves it out there.

She pulls her hand away, but gives him the menu. They stare at each other. 

His stomach hasn’t stopped doing tiny flips for hours now. He feels like a teenager on a first date. He might pass out.

Luckily, the waitress walks up and sets down glasses of still water. She looks between them. “Oh hi, Andrew,” she says, warm but clearly surprised. “We weren’t expecting you tonight, or…”

He waves her off. “This is perfect,” he says. Trying to see out his peripheral vision if she’s impressed. She just looks extremely bemused. 

He hands the waitress the menus. “We’ll have the scallop and the tuna, please.” 

Smiling, she takes their order over to the chef, who glances up and gives a little salute. "Mate,” he says. The place is so small he doesn’t even have to raise his voice. 

He nods back, then steels himself again, turning around to face her. She’s giving him _scorching_ eye contact. Fuck. He blinks first.

She must’ve known he would, because she laughs. “So...” she prompts. 

He looks at her, decides something. “Hold on,” he says. Stands up and scooches his chair next to hers so they’re shoulder to shoulder, both their backs against the wall, looking at the kitchen.

She looks a bit frightened. Good. Let her feel some of what he’s been dealing with. 

“This way,” he says, “I can tell you what the chef’s doing. Kind of narrate it. See, he’s about to sear the scallop, and what you want to do for that is... ”

They’re pretty close. He feels her looking at him from under her lashes, and she puts a hand to her temple. 

“You asshole,” she says in a very low voice, a laugh already rumbling out. “Are you somehow a fucking restaurant critic?”

“Yeah,” he says, letting it hang there. The way he said it when she’d asked, a million years ago, if he were a real priest.

She claps her hands, so pleased, not quite believing him. She gestures towards him like: _And_? 

He decides to tease her and makes his face very serious. “The _Sun_. Dream job. You haven’t seen my name in there?”

“I mean, it is the only paper I read,” she acknowledges. A beat as she tilts her head at him. “But I don’t know whether I ever caught your last name, to recognize it.” 

They both guffaw because it’s an outrageous lie. There were a lot of things they didn’t know about each other, but that wasn’t one of them. He used to whisper her name to himself sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, like a prayer. 

“So that’s it, then. You write awful reviews for an awful paper,” she says, sipping her water. She looks skeptical, but also like she’s about to lose her mind with glee. 

“My reviews are brilliant,” he scoffs, pretending offense. “There may have been a slight massaging of the facts, though. Not even Murdoch will have me.” 

He pauses, then tells her the truth. “I do write, but just for _The Big Issue_. Which I know has its problems, of course, but I try to highlight where folks on the street can get a good meal for free, with dignity. The place we’re in now is one of them. The owner’s a giving sort. They’ll make scallops for fuckin’ anybody.” 

“Oh,” she says, interested. She looks around with new eyes. “That’s… really lovely. So that’s where you work then? _The Big Issue_?”

“Technically, I’m afloat on the aforementioned raft of social workers,” he says. “Housing First commission. Getting folk into their own flats, helping them find jobs. Connecting them with support to stay clean and sober, if they want it.” 

When he looks at her again, her eyes are bright with tears. She squeezes his hand. “God,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s perfect. That’s just right.” 

He didn’t know that’s all he wanted, to make her proud. But it was. He’s so happy. 

Just then, the waitress breezes over. She sets down two enormously elegant bulbed glasses and holds a sweating bottle of chardonnay. “On the house,” she says when he demures. “From the staff stash in the back, we keep it for after shift. Nothing too fancy.” 

He looks at Phoebe. She’s giving him the eyes again. “I will if you will,” she says lightly.

He’s a dead man. “Can hardly back down from that challenge,” he says to the waitress, equally light. 

She smiles and pours him a splash to sample. He hesitates only a moment before he gives it a swirl and sips, then nods in approval. She pours them both a glass, leaving the bottle. 

“Well,” he says. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes again, so he goes to drink again. Fuck it.

“Wait,” she says. “We should have a proper toast.”

He immediately flashes to a toast from another lifetime: “To peace, and those who get in the way of it.” 

God, but that one turned out to be evergreen.

“Oh, sure, of course,” he says, the glass an inch from his lips. “Um.” He gestures towards her, letting her fill it in. His heart is banging around alarmingly, like laundry in an unbalanced washing machine. 

She considers for a long moment, then raises her glass. “To old friends,” she says, quiet, sincere. 

Not what he was expecting, but okay. He tilts his glass at hers. “Can’t argue with that,” he says. “To old friends.” 

They clink. Eye contact. Damn. 

He puts his glass back down with care, not sipping, which she notices. “Something wrong?” she asks.

He thinks carefully about how much he wants to say. But when he looks back at her, she already knows. 

“Andrew,” she says softly. Horrified. 

That’s the part that gets him, the vulnerability in her voice. Hurt, wondering why he didn’t just come out and tell her. Empathizing all the same. That’s what fucking gets him. 

He rubs his face. Wishes he could play it cool. Knows he can’t. 

“How long?” she asks. 

He laughs, coughs. “Depends on how you count it. This time around, 734 days.” 

A beat. She looks completely devastated. He decides to overplay it. 

“Orrrrrr” - he checks the non-existent watch again, blows his cheeks out - “a minute and thirty seconds.”

“Fuck,” she says. “Shit. Fucking hell. Fuck.” 

“It’s okay,” he says. “It really is.” 

“No, it’s not!” she barks, laughing in horror, glancing between him and the glass. “Why did you drink it? Did you not feel you could tell me, or...? Why the _fuck_ did you do that?”

A very long beat. He gestures helplessly, not even knowing himself. This night has already taken several unexpected turns.

He sees something shift in her expression, and before he can conjure up an answer, she stands up hard and fast. Her knee hits the table. “No -” he protests, as he sees what’s happening. 

Everything shatters. 

The wine bottle somehow doesn’t break, just rolls away in the silence, dumping out white as it goes. The handful of other patrons look on in shock. The waitress is poised with their food, moments away from setting it before them. 

Phoebe looks at him, then at the waitress, then at the chef. “Oh God,” she says very calmly. “How mortifying. I’m, um… mortified.”

She’s not. Shoots him a brisk sideways glance from under her brows.

“Are you okay, darling?” she asks, touching his arm. Suddenly, it’s as if she’s channeling her stepmother, which spooks him and also makes him want to die laughing.

“Oh gosh, I’ve given him a fright,” she pouts. “Does anyone have something I could -” She looks around for the waitress. “Oh no, and the food just ready. Do you think… could you be a dear and…?” She makes a little movement that signifies wrapping up the food. 

She’s terrifying, and magnificent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've brought in a few elements from "real life" into this chapter!
> 
> The restaurant is inspired by my favorite date-night spot, [Little Fish](https://www.littlefishbyob.com/photos) \- there are some photos at this link that will help you picture where Phoebe and Andrew are sitting (next to the chalkboard menu in the corner), as well as what makes a menu on scrap paper so elegant. :) 
> 
> My husband was a Housing First social worker in the US for a long time. The idea with this model is that you don't force people experiencing homelessness to get a job and/or get clean so they can "earn" a place to live. Doing it the other way around actually leads to a higher success rate for employment and sobriety - hence "Housing _First_." Our man ended up in this role because I could easily see an ex-priest making a transition to caring for people's holistic wellness.
> 
> (Incidentally, my spouse also inspired the Priest's outfit in this story! We mostly wear sweatpants these days in quarantine so it was fun to remember how dashing he looks in a tweed overcoat and scarf and Chelsea boots. :-D) 
> 
> Finally, a number of people close to me have dealt with alcohol addiction. Lapses in sobriety can certainly be cataclysmic, and often are. But sometimes they are momentary blips that can't even really be attributed to anything - and then you just reset the clock and keep going. Andrew will text his sponsor and go to a meeting, and keep on keeping on. 
> 
> (I know there's a lot of debate as to whether the Priest was an actual alcoholic or what, but I made the decision to show the depth of his commitment to changing his life post-Fleabag. I also recognize a lot of his behaviors in the show as indicative of dependency at the very least, so it didn't feel like a reach.)


	9. Ain't a Pill That Could Touch Our Rush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eye-fucking. That's it, that's the summary.

They’re standing outside the restaurant, facing the street. Each holding a doggie bag of food. Their trousers are spattered with water and wine.

“Um,” she says, experimentally. “I’d apologize, but. I did it on purpose. So.” The hint of a comically knit brow, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

He rubs his face with his free hand. “You realize I can never go back in there.” 

“Sure you can!” she says, waving him off. “Just not with me.” 

He stands there. He can feel her watching him. 

“I don’t really do things like that anymore,” she says. “Shenanigans. Making a scene. I just… couldn’t see another way out.”

He meets her eyes, incredulous. “There are like… fifty other ways we could’ve handled a brief interruption to my sobriety.” 

Nose scrunch as she thinks. “It’s just… more fun to be naughty sometimes, I suppose.” 

“But you don’t make scenes anymore,” he says, fully skeptical, teasing. She looks only a tad chagrined. 

“Oh, I don’t,” she reassures him. “I barely even get into scrapes. I’m tragically boring now. You’ll be so disappointed.” 

He’s about to make a quip about finance. Then: “You could never disappoint me,” he says.

It comes out far more serious than he intends, a little too tender. It’s not quite a match for the moment. 

It doesn’t matter. 

They look at each other for a long while. She breaks first this time.

“Whew,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I forgot how good we were at eye-fucking. I’m going to need another cigarette if we keep that up.” 

He bursts out laughing. “Eye-fucking?!”

“Yeah, eye-fucking. Like this.” She demonstrates. 

Now it’s his turn to die 17 deaths in the span of three seconds. 

Go on man, keep sparring, he tells himself, or it won’t be long before you’re groping each other in an alley against a sticky brick wall. Can’t have that.

So he spars, keeping it light. “God damn, Phoebe. I think you've gotten me pregnant.”

She laughs. “Immaculate conception. God damn indeed.” She looks up at the sky again. Radiant. 

“Shall we find somewhere to eat this?” he asks, holding up his doggie bag.

She twitches her head down the street. “Know just the place.”


	10. I Still Remember Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having feelings is exhausting, but having a Klare makes the indignity of emotions quite tolerable.

Claire is sitting on a stool in her massive, gleaming kitchen, turning a glass of wine slowly on its stem. A sleek laptop is open in front of her, but she’s not looking at it.

Klare clomps in, navigating around the labeled moving boxes stacked on the floor. “She’s sleeping,” he says, and kisses Claire on her neck. “Only had to read _The Gruffalo_ five times tonight.”

He starts washing dishes across from her, glancing up occasionally. She’s still staring into space.

“What is wrong, my love,” he asks gently.

She starts. “Oh,” she says. “Nothing. Just tired.”

He points the scrub brush at her. “Don’t lie,” he says.

A soft smile. “I’m not,” she says. “I am tired.” A beat. “And sad.”

“I know,” he says, turning off the tap, wiping down the countertop. “It is hard for you to leave your home. You are rooted here. It is painful to pull up something that is planted so deeply. You will miss it so much.”

She smiles at him, perplexed and grateful. The way he just states her feelings for her when she’d rather surround them in barbed wire - it disarms her utterly. It’s beautiful to her. Very few things are. That’s what makes it such a gift.

She lifts the glass to her lips and sips. She knows she can trust him with her fear. “What if I can’t keep her safe, once we go?”

“Claire,” he says softly. “You’re a wonderful mother. She will always be safe with you.”

Abruptly, Claire puts her head down on her arms. She’s suddenly sobbing. He always does this to her, with his gentleness and optimism. Now he rounds the counter, quickly, decisively, and sits next to her.

She lifts her head and sniffs, then lets it out. “I mean Phoebe. What if she falls apart again? I missed so much, last time, because I was so caught up with you.” She has a realization, a fresh thought in a fresh hell. “And - oh God, I’ve tried to mother _her_ for years. Get her to eat her vegetables and stop being so shocking. When I should’ve just... sistered her. No wonder she resents me.”

He looks startled. “You are an amazing sister, Claire. Phoebe doesn’t resent you. She loves you. And she knows you love her. No matter how much you give her a mean face and a scolding.” He mimics her patented sour expression, and it’s painfully accurate.

She takes a shuddering breath and laughs. “I just don’t know who will protect her, that’s all. I mean, think about tonight. She’s off with this ridiculous man who already messed her up once, badly. And he’s going to do it again, with his biceps and his deep thoughts.” She looks at Klare, wide-eyed. “Someone’s _heart_ is going to get broken. What if it’s hers?”

They share a long moment of silence. “She will be okay,” he says finally. “She is a - what do you call it. A grown-ass woman. She can protect her own heart. It’s not your yob anymore.”

Claire laughs through her tears. They lean into each other. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

Just then, her phone buzzes with a text. She picks it up.

“Oh, fucking hell,” she announces. "This is exactly what I'm talking about."

She shows him the screen. He raises his eyebrows and starts laughing. “It’s _not_ funny,” she says. He tries to school his face, unsuccessfully.

He keeps straightening the kitchen, still chuckling a bit, as Claire stalks into the other room, the phone already to her ear.


	11. We’re the Greatest, They’ll Hang Us in the Louvre… Down the Back, but Who Cares, Still the Louvre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winding up Claire is a national pastime!

When we get back to our friends, they’re standing in the doorway of a massive corporate office at the top of a skyscraper. She touches the light panel on the wall, bathing the room in a dim amber glow.

“Holy shit,” he says, after a long moment. “Is this yours?” She quirks her eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying, just extends a hand to usher him in. “You really have sold your soul to the devil.”

He can feel her watching him as he walks slowly around the space, picking up small items on the desk, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the glittering city.

“Well, I definitely got the better end of the bargain,” she replies. “My anemic soul for an ergonomic rolly chair. And a Best Woman in Business Award.”

The place is fastidious and completely devoid of personality, so he knows she’s putting him on. Any workspace of hers would be littered with stacks of half-empty tea cups, and there would be at least one framed picture of a family member. Plus several featuring guinea pigs, come to think of it.

Just then, her phone starts playing its little jingle in her pocket. She takes it out and looks at the screen. Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Ope,” she says, mischief in her voice. “This ought to be good.” She hits the answer button, motioning him to sit down on the massive sofa facing the window. He does, setting down their takeaway containers and opening them. He’s starved and nicks a bite of the tuna.

She walks a few steps away as she answers. “Claire!” she says, overly bright.

He freezes mid-chew, suddenly realizing where they are. Bugger.

Immediately she holds the phone away from her ear, and he can hear every word. Claire’s voice, all sharp angles and fury: “Have you gone completely insane.”

“What’re you talking about?” Phoebe asks, innocently, looking at him.

And it’s like they’ve both been caught with their hands in the cookie jar, two naughty children. Instantly conspiratorial, she taps the phone screen to put it on speaker. He can’t help smiling.

“Bernie texted. He said you’re at the office.”

“Who’s Bernie?”

“The security guard. He buzzed you in. It’s almost fucking midnight, Phoebe.”

“I’m, um, working… late…?” she shrugs, barely even trying for a believable excuse.

He makes his eyes huge. _Don’t tell her I’m here_ , he mouths at Phoebe. She whispers fiercely, “If I go down, I'm taking you with me.”

Christ this is fun.

“Who are you hissing at?” Claire demands.

“No one,” she replies. “Um… Bernie.” He cackles silently, which only eggs her on.

Claire has lost any pretense of patience. “Stop dicking around. Bernie said he buzzed in you _and a man_.”

“Well, Bernie’s a snitch.” She makes an affronted face.

He is now shaking with laughter on the sofa - it’s not what she’s saying, it’s how she’s saying it, and how much it’s antagonizing Claire.

It’s like she’s putting on a performance just for him. He’s more than willing to be her adoring audience.

Claire is livid. “For God’s sake, Phoebe, this isn’t a joke. I could get in serious trouble.”

“Why would _you_ get in trouble?” Her tone goes a bit prickly.

A long pause from Claire. Then: “It was my reputation on the line when we hired you, Phoebe. You swore you’d behave.”

She looks embarrassed and abruptly turns off the speaker, putting the phone back to her ear. “And you swore you’d stop treating me like a child,” she says, aiming for levity but landing in tension.

“Well, if the shoe fits,” Claire responds, a little too frankly. The room is so quiet now that he can still hear her replies. He winces.

There’s a long moment of silence. Phoebe’s turned away, so he can’t see her face, but he can feel the hurt radiating off her. A deep wound, that one.

“We’ll leave then,” she says, at the same time Claire says, “Don’t bother leaving.”

A momentary stand-off. Then Phoebe answers, slowly: “Claire. Just tell me what to do.”

“I mean… there’s no point now. You’re already there. Just… don’t do anything outrageous.”

Phoebe’s tone goes cheeky: “No promises.” Quirks her eyebrow at him again.

He’s going to lose his mind if she doesn’t give it a rest with the adorable facial expressions. He used to have them all memorized.

He hears Claire sigh again. “Fine. Then just... don’t leave a mess in your office for the cleaning staff.”

“Oh. I definitely will not leave a mess in _my_ office.” Phoebe screws up her face and waits.

“Oh God. Are you… in _my_ office.”

She doesn’t reply, but pulls the phone slowly away from her ear, anticipating the nuclear detonation that’s about to occur. He’s horrified and delighted.

“Fleabag!” Claire explodes. “Jesus! If you fuck a priest on my desk, I will never forgive you.”

“Not a priest,” she reminds her sister, deadpan, still twinkling at him. He can’t help flicking his gaze over at the enormous desk. She follows his eyes and has the decency to blush a little.

“Not the point!” Claire yells. “I mean… have you even told your girlfriend what’s going on? I know you both pretend not to give a shit, but if you break that poor woman’s heart…”

“Nothing’s _going on_ , Claire!” Phoebe laughs, defensive. “We’ve just been walking and talking. We’re eating dinner.” A pause. She turns away as if to keep him from hearing, but he knows it’s part of the show. “There may have been some light eye-fucking.”

“You’re shameless,” Claire says. Another pause. “Look. I do know you’re a grown-up. It’s your life. Just… be careful.” Another long pause. “Don’t break his heart, either.”

“Well, I’m going to break _someone’s_ heart tonight,” Phoebe jokes, trying a little too hard for levity. Her eyes go a bit wild.

Claire sighs again. “Exactly,” she says. A long pause. “I really am _so_ pissed off with you. I’ve honestly never been angrier.” In typical Claire fashion, she actually sounds quite delighted while announcing her outrage.

Phoebe smiles. “I know,” she says. “I love you too.” Glances up at him, then away.

She really is shameless.

She ends the call and goes to pocket her phone, then seems to think better of it. “Actually,” she says, in the echoing quiet of the office, “I think I’d better… Just need to send a quick text.”

He inhales. “Yeah. Me too.”

They both stare at their phones, facing away from each other. He’s typing slowly with his thumbs. Deleting. Then typing again.

Finally, we see what’s on his screen. There’s a text from Marco, with a time-stamp of 10:30pm: _All right_?

He hits send, and his reply whooshes off: _All right. I owe you an apology, though. I’m with Phoebe. Just catching up._

The bubble with the three dots floats there for a while. He rubs his hand over his face. The phone chimes. He looks at it.

_“I figured. Be careful mate. Don’t get slapped. xx”_

It makes him huff out a laugh, quickly followed by an effort to control the lump in his throat. Fuck this man for being so wonderful. He dashes off another reply: “ _Call you tomorrow. xx_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a tiny little Easter egg from "The Good Place" hiding in this one! So small that you might miss it, but tell me if you have a guess.


	12. We Were Wild and Fluorescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe and Andrew invent a game called Regular Things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Election Day to my fellow Americans! I can't focus on effing *anything* today so here's some more pure escapism for you.

While Phoebe finishes up texting, he busies himself with the food. He spreads out some napkins as a makeshift covering for the glass table, out of respect for - and, let’s be honest, fear of - Claire. He scans the room and notices a panel under the built-in shelves that he just bets is a mini-fridge.

Bingo. Fully stocked with Pellegrino.

He grabs two and makes another educated guess that the cupboard next to the fridge holds glasses. Right again. They’re cut crystal, even.

When he turns around with his loot, Phoebe is ensconced on the sofa, gazing out the window at the sparkling city. She turns to look at him. They smile at each other.

She’s taken off the belted sweater that she’d had wrapped around herself in the chilly restaurant. Now he sees that she’s wearing a different version of the jet black one-piece thingy she had on the night he met her. This one has a long sleeve on one side and none on the other. He will never understand women’s fashion, but he does know the effect is cataclysmically sexy.

It also reveals a blackline tattoo that starts on the cap of her shoulder and spills down her arm, floral and stunning and new to him.

Trying not to get distracted, he sets down the tumblers and fills them with sparkling water, then hands her one. “Shall we try another toast?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says. “Your turn.”

He pretends to think for a bit, but he’s already got one. “Here’s to shenanigans,” he says, extending his glass to her.

She smiles winningly. “To scrapes,” she replies. “And scenes.”

“To Bernie,” he adds, making her snort.

They clink and sip, holding each other’s gaze around their glasses. A long beat.

“Well!” he says, putting down his glass and resting his hands on his knees. “Shall we?” He indicates the food. Just in case there’s any question.

“Yes, please. I’m starved,” she says. Wiggles her fingers at him. “Let me at those scallops.”

“Oh no,” he says, holding the takeaway box to his chest. “We’re sharing, remember? You _start_ with the scallop and then we switch.”

She rolls her eyes and grabs the box from him, pausing to study the contents. “Wait. I thought ‘scallop’ was the posh restaurant-y way of saying ‘scallops.’ There really is literally just one scallop in here.”

“Well, yeah,” he replies. “That’s how you know it’s fancy. Plus it’s fucking huge, you could feel a family of five on that.”

“I know I said I’d go up to three, but the deal’s off if I have to share my food with everyone,” she ribs back, making his breath hitch as she lifts a forkful.

She covers her mouth, eyes huge. “Oh, this is delicious,” she says. “Jesus.”

“Right?” He gives her the eyebrows and tucks into his own meal.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, chewing, sipping. She slips her shoes off and curls her feet underneath her. One of her stockings has a hole in it, big toe poking through. After awhile, she wiggles her fingers at him again, and they swap takeout containers.

He wonders, fleetingly, if this is what it would’ve been like to eat takeaway with her every Saturday night. Completely comfortable, with the smallest hint of danger to keep it interesting.

Not for the first time, he reflects that they never really shared simple moments like this. Everything was charged, everything was urgent. There’s no space for the mundane when you’re burning white-hot with forbidden desire and resisting an all-consuming intimacy and falling in love so hard that you can’t even breathe half the time. That level of intensity was totally unsustainable. It’s why they crashed and burned so spectacularly, he thinks.

Well, that, and the fact that he was a Catholic fucking priest. _Fucking_ being the operative word.

“Have you ever thought about how we don’t know each other very well?” she asks suddenly, tilting her head at him.

“Um,” he says, caught off guard. Only three seconds ago. How’d she get inside his head so fast?

He scrambles for more banter. “Yes. For example, I could not have predicted that you’d turn out to be a stuffed-shirt cubicle farmer who only cares about spreadsheets and closing the deal.”

She laughs and feigns offense. “Wow. Low blow. And I didn’t know you’d turn out to be... an insanely attractive do-gooder with a lovely boyfriend and a heart of gold.” She pauses. “Wait, that’s not an insult. Hang on, I’ll get there.”

“While you’re thinking up a sick burn, can we go back to the part where I’m insanely attractive?” he asks, smirking a bit.

(He’s quite flustered to find he needs her affirmation like he needs air. He’s not particularly modest, possibly a holdover from his days of swishing around in bedazzled religious robes giving half his parishioners a heart attack - but he’s realizing how much he wants to hear it from her, specifically.)

“It’s a clinical observation,” she chides. “It’s, like, empirically true that you’re gorgeous.”

“Looks who’s talking,” he says. Now he’s the one flirting shamelessly. He can't stop himself from dragging his gaze over her from head to toe.

Thus follows a solid half-minute of eye-fucking.

“Um,” she says, digging back into her food. “As I was saying. We don’t actually know each other.”

“Right,” he replies, clearing a spot on the low glass table and putting up his feet. He really considers what she’s saying. “Well, our acquaintance was rather short.”

“That’s true,” she says thoughtfully. “But it’s not really what I mean. It’s more that so much of our… togetherness… was about what we _weren’t_ doing and _weren’t_ saying and allegedly _weren’t_ feeling. Any hint of the normal stuff would've dragged everything else into the light. And I very much didn't want that.”

(He allows himself to recall, for the first time in ages, the feeling of that time. Her nearness, her smile, her open heartedness, even as she kept him at a distance. The way she coated everything in magic for not even a month of his life. It’s part of why he works so hard to reign in his extravagant tendencies now. Because he never stopped chasing that high, even when it damn near destroyed him.)

He brings himself back to the present, where she’s saying, “It wasn’t like how you usually meet someone, where you’re sitting in a bar going ‘oh where’d you go to uni’ or ‘what’s your favorite TV show’ and then you just kind of... ramp up to loving each other.”

“Hmm,” he says, looking at the ceiling. “Trinity, on scholarship, for philosophy. And _Killing Eve_. Just for the record.” Ignoring the last bit of what she’s said, about loving each other. He can’t look that directly in the face yet. “What about you?”

She laughs. “St Catz at Oxford. I read for drunken escapades and shagging my art history don. And... _The Bachelor_.” He makes a face. “Oh, don’t give me that, I hate using my brain when I watch telly.”

She pauses to eat another bite of her food, chewing thoughtfully, and returns to the subject at hand. “It was thrilling, our whole thing, don’t get me wrong. But it also means that I don’t know any regular things about you.”

“Well, you know about my brother.”

“That’s exactly what I mean!” She laughs. “That’s not a _regular_ thing to tell someone you’ve just met at a dinner party!”

He grows more serious, but keeps some playfulness in his voice. “Says who? The truth is always more interesting, and besides, it disarms people. Lets them know they can open up to you. And then you can see who they really are.”

“A-ha!” she says, as if she’s caught him at something. “I knew it! Confession as emotional manipulation! Using people’s secrets to trap and control them! Knew it.”

“Come on,” he groans. But he’s totally unnerved.

(It took a long time and literal years of therapy to own the fact that, for him, asking questions and listening to answers was almost always a selfish act. He still has to work hard not to break into the vaults of people’s minds and hearts to extract some treasure for himself. And somehow she’d clocked that about him by the time he was drunkenly steering her towards a confessional, all those years ago. Talk about disarming.)

He recovers himself and gazes at her. “So is it too late?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light and level. “To learn regular things about each other?”

She considers, turning down the corners of her mouth. “Probably,” she answers. “But we could give it a go.”

He’s so relieved - and, frankly, thrilled - that he has to pass his hand over his face a few times to stop him from losing his cool completely. “Okay,” he says. “So how does this work? Is it like a job interview?”

“I think it’s more like a game show,” she says. “Lightning round.”

“Okay,” he says, before he loses his nerve. “Let’s go. Let’s… rip off the bandage.”


	13. Don’t Know You Super-well But I Think That You Might Be the Same as Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe plays a drinking game with herself and our man answers 20 questions.

They’re seated on the couch, bodies turned towards each other, facing off. They’ve finished their meal. His heart is pounding again with the unknown. 

“You first,” she says.

“No, you first,” he says.

“Okay.” She thinks. “Actually, hold on.” 

She gets up and walks over to Claire’s desk. She flutters her fingers towards the cabinets beneath the shelves as if divining them. She pulls one open like she’s expecting a snake to jump out at her, then emerges with a wicked grin, a bottle of whiskey, and a shot glass. “God bless Claire,” she says. “Prepared for every eventuality.”

He feels the blood drain from his face, and she moves quickly to reassure him. “It’s not for you. It’s for me.” A beat. She looks at him, checking in. “Is that okay?” 

“Go for it,” he says. 

She does two shots in quick succession, shaking her head briskly at the burn. Replaces the bottle in the cupboard and leaves the glass on the desk. 

“Whew. Don’t really do that anymore, either,” she says, coughing a bit as she settles herself back on the couch. “I’m just really fucking nervous.” 

She looks at him directly and he’s suddenly so turned on that he legitimately thinks he might expire on the spot. She’s somehow cracked the formula, and apparently, honesty + eye contact = legendary hornstorm.

He swallows very hard and tries to swim upward again.

“Okay,” she says, clapping her hands, business-like. “Lightning round. Regular things. Let’s start from now and work backwards, shall we?”

She points at him and fires off the first question. “Why did you have a beer out back of the pub tonight?”

He’s confused and tries to backtrack in his mind. _Did_ he have a beer? 

He suddenly gets a picture of himself earlier as she must have seen him, pacing, smoking, holding a pint. It feels like a lifetime ago. She’d told him to get a drink and meet him outside, so he had, without even stopping to question it.

He smiles. “Um, security blanket. Just carried it around. Something to do with my hands.” He shrugs and looks at her. “I guess I was really fucking nervous, too.” 

She looks extremely self-satisfied, then shakes it off. “I’m glad to hear that. I don’t want to get in the way of your peace.” She gives him a genuine smile, which suddenly morphs into a wicked one. “At least not in that way.” 

Okay, so the whiskey is starting to hit her, then. She’s looking at him like he’s something to eat. Not that he minds. 

He clears his throat, and she snaps out of it. “You’re supposed to do a question now,” she says briskly. “Regular things only.”

He totally forgot this is even what they were doing. “Um,” he says, frantically grasping for something to ask. “Um.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re awful at this. I’ll go.” She pretends to think, but he can tell she has a question ready. “What’s his name?”

He takes a moment to orient himself. “Um. Marco.”

“Sexy.” She snaps her fingers at him. “Come on. Rapid fire.”

“Oh. Um. What’s… her name.”

Deadpan: “Claire. We’ve been over this.”

He’s confused, then realizes she’s razzing him. He laughs. “No, no, the other one. The tall one. What is she anyway, a model?”

“She’s Nicola. Investment banker. Does look like a model though, it’s why I’ve kept her.” The cheeky eyebrow. “Um. How long have you and… _Marco_ been together?” 

He can’t help a small smile. “Three months.” 

She looks surprised. “That’s it? Well done. I thought longer.” She anticipates his next question with a nod of her head. “A few months for me and Nic, too. Friends for a while first, though. Okay, next question -” 

“You can’t do two in a row!” he protests. 

She scoffs at him. “You have to be quicker than that if you want a turn. Um… how did you meet?“ 

He already knows she’s going to laugh at him. “He was my yoga instructor.” 

Her eyes go huge. “Wow! That’s even better than I thought it would be,” she says, completely delighted. “That one was worth the wait.”

“Fuck off,” he says, laughing. “Same question to you.”

She gives him a look of chagrin. “Company retreat in Finland with the Claires. Sorry to disappoint.” 

“On _so_ many levels.” 

“You’re going to have to let this finance thing go,” she says. “Okay. My turn.” Squinting, not sure she should say it: “Is he the first?” 

He lets his face go blank. “The first what.” She bulges her eyes at him. “The first… Italian I’ve dated?” 

“God you’re enraging. The first man, asshole.” 

“Funny you should put it like that.” 

He’s getting into the rhythm of their banter, now, and doesn’t really think that one through before it comes out of his mouth. She bursts out laughing.

“Really though,” she says, wonderingly. “I didn’t… You with a man. That was a real surprise.” 

“Imagine how I felt!” he says. More laughter from both of them. “I dunno. It’s like, what’s the saying. I discovered that I like the wine and not the label.” 

“Oh that’s lovely. I’m stealing that.” She settles back further into the couch. “Think you need a new metaphor though, now that you’ve been sober for--” she looks at her watch-- “74 minutes.” 

She pauses, genuinely wanting to know: “Too soon?”

He laughs. “Nah. 95 percent of sobriety is gallows humor.” 

Her: “Fair enough. Okay, next question--”

Him: “No no no. My turn. Okay… um. Um.”

She’s caught him out. “You really are so bad at this. You have to have one ready. Do this one while you think. Do you... like my new hairstyle?”

He’s silent for a moment, studying her. “Is it new?”

She looks uncertain, jutting her chin at him. “I mean… it’s like… really long now. It’s very different.” (In reality, it’s a few inches longer than we’ve ever seen it, pinned up loosely at the sides, and she’s clearly been doing some kind of curly girl magic. But not that different.) 

He shakes his head slowly. 

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck, this is why I only date women. Okay, your turn.”

Him, a softball: “You only date women?”

Her, a bit startled: “Pretty much.” 

Him, in for a gentle kill: “And when did that start?”

“Long before you came along!” she jibes back. She looks out over the city. "Though I admit the ratio has tipped significantly over the last few years."

He’s about to make some witty reply when she suddenly fires off: “D’you still believe in God?”

Him: “Jesus.” 

Her: “Him too, I guess.”

“So we’re on to the heavy hitters now. Okay.” He shakes his hands out. “Short answer: yes to God generally, no to Jesus specifically, in the exclusive Lord and Savior-y way. Still a big fan of his work, though.” 

She looks at him appraisingly. “Huh. Not a Catholic, then."

He shakes his head, then turns the question back on her before she can dig deeper. "Do you?”

"Believe in God? No, of course not," she says, then raises her eyes to meet his. “Do go to church pretty often though. Anglican. That’s one habit I never managed to break, thanks to you...” - half a beat - “Father.” 

He takes a deep breath, recenters himself. “That’s not fair,” he says. 

She scoffs, her eyes bright. “Who said anything about fair? We’re ripping the bandage off, remember?” 

They stare at each other for a while. She looks away first this time. 

“Phoebe… we don’t have to…” he starts, gently.

She clears her throat and tosses her (slightly longer) hair. “I believe it’s my turn.” 

A long pause. Then she looks right at him. “When did you leave?”

He hangs his head. “You don’t have to… we don’t have to do this.”

She sits up straight and slices into him with her eyes. “No, but we do. We do, actually, have to do this.” He realizes she’s fighting back tears. “God, the way I _fucking_ pined for you. And the whole time…”

He doesn’t know what to say. She pulls herself together and wipes her nose bravely on her sleeve. Faces him head on. 

“When did you leave the priesthood, Andrew.” 

He rubs his fingers together for a while. Stares at the skyline. Works his jaw. He’s fighting tears too. 

He begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schitt's Creek Easter egg in this one! Let me know if you spot it.
> 
> Next chapters include Big Answers and Big Reveals. Looking forward to posting!


	14. Are You Lost Enough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Priest makes his confession to Phoebe. (Whether she absolves him remains to be seen.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a monologue. Phoebe's responses are italicized and indented.

It’s not a happy story. 

_I should hope not,_ she says. _Carry on._

Well. Let’s see. I was a mess. When we left each other. 

_When you left me_ , she corrects.

Right. When I left you. I was a mess. And I just let myself be one for a while. Drinking and crying and listening to Lorde on repeat and torturing myself about whether I should call you or show up at your flat or maybe kill myself. I really went all out on the wallowing.

_Did you say listening to the Lord? Like the Almighty?_ she asks. _Or Lorde? As in… the singer for teenage girls with broken hearts?_

Oh, the latter. I was feeling quite melodramatic so it was a perfect match. And it’s a really good album, you should listen to it. 

Anyway, I kept thinking God was going to spare me the way he had spared Abraham. You know, “act like you’re going to sacrifice someone you love to show me you’re serious, and in the end I won’t make you go through with it.” I kept looking for the ram in the thicket, the supernatural loophole. But it never came.

And then I woke up on a Wednesday or something. Maybe a Thursday. And I still wasn’t okay, but I had this sense of, like, the sacrifice had been made, so I may as well be worthy to it. 

So I went to my confessor, this guy in another parish, and I told him what we’d done. What I’d done. And we went through the whole rigamarole - penance, rosaries, right relationship, blahblahblah. And at the end, he told me to keep a close watch on certain tendencies in myself.

_What tendencies?_ she asks.

Codependency. Addiction. Misconduct. For starters.

It was a lot to take in, but I was determined. I wanted to make it right. I was going to be the most dedicated, most holy, most earnest servant of the Most High God in the whole fucking world.

So I bottled up those tendencies and put them away, out of sight, out of mind. I’d prayed for peace, and now I had it. I had all the peace I’d ever wanted. No more distractions, no more divided loyalties, no more second-guessing my vocation. 

I moved to a new parish in the city, and I just priested the hell out of it. I visited all the sick and shut in, and baptized all the babies, and married all the couples who needed marrying without even resenting them that much, and served holy communion, and wrote stupid shit for the parish newsletter, and held people’s hands while they cried, and sat with people who were dying, and heard confessions, and read the Bible, and gave the benediction. I didn’t even have time to think about anything else, and I didn't want to.  
  
And it was all okay, for a long while there. It was a good life again. I really did love it.

_And then what,_ she asks. 

And then… This is the hard bit.

_Okay,_ she says.

I don’t want to hurt you. 

_Bit late for that,_ she says.

I mean… I don’t want to hurt you more than I already did. And I’m ashamed. I’m really ashamed.

_Just spit it out,_ she says. _In for a penny._

Okay. So. Then. 

I’d been doing really well for six months, maybe a bit longer. I was healthy. I was busy. Everything was fine. I could finally sit at a bus stop and not feel the need to go on a bender. I could look at a G&T without crying my eyes out, partly because I wasn’t drinking as much anymore. There were even some of those weird urban foxes roaming about the new parish, and I barely felt anything when I saw them. They were just animals, instead of portents. 

_Portents?_ she asks. _Of what?_

My own inadequacy? My doubts and misgivings about my calling? Temptation? Lust? God Himself? I never really figured that out. I just felt that they didn’t have power over me any more, and therefore neither did whatever it was they represented. So I let my guard down. 

_Little did you know those foxes still had your number._

Oh, they did. They definitely did. The wee fuckers.

Anyway. 

Around that time, this woman started attending my church. Her name was Agnes. She was a bit older than me, and very beautiful, and very damaged. 

You can probably see where this is going. 

She stares at him.

Do you want to... say anything? 

She just stares at him.

Okay. Well. I started letting myself look forward to seeing her on Sundays. I started trying to make her laugh. I told her to show up whenever she needed a chat and a drink. I let her think that she was special, that she had access to a part of me that no one else did. All the traps from my past were claiming me again. 

_Did you give her a Bible?_ she asks, laughing bitterly.

No. 

_Did you love her?_ she says. Her eyes have gone flat. 

No.   
  
_Did you sleep with her?_  
  
Yes. I did.

Angry tears are tracking down her face. She shakes her head slowly.  
  
This is why I didn't want to tell you. But you have to understand that, with Agnes, everything was… massively fucked up.   
  
She got pregnant. And had an abortion. And told my superior about it. And it broke me. 

A long pause. _Did you tell her to get the abortion?_ she asks. 

Of course not. She disappeared after we… Well, I didn’t even know she was pregnant until later. I found out when I was called to my bishop and he gave me a choice. I could laicise - resign - or I could be transferred to a new role in the diocesan offices. Either way, I was pretty much done serving in a parish church.

I asked for a week to decide, and I went to this seaside monastery in Cornwall. I walked the cliffs and shouted into the wind and thought about throwing myself off the edge of the world. I prayed and I prayed. And I got nothing in return. 

On my last day there, I was sitting in a little cove by myself, brooding, and there was still nothing. Until I heard a sound. And you’ll never believe this, but a fox appeared. A fucking fox, Phoebe. No idea what it was doing there on the coast.  
  
It circled around me three times, which was terrifying enough. It was so deliberate. And then the arsehole just lays down next to me. The two of us sat there for an age, I don’t even know how long, looking out at the sea. 

It finally got up and trotted away, and it looked back at me before it went. Like, right at me! Into my soul. And I waved at it, like a nitwit, because how else do you bid farewell to your patronus or your daemon or whatever?  
  
And then, quite suddenly, I felt this… immense exhale in my spirit. I’d heard people describe it before, this peace that passeth all understanding, but I don’t think I knew what it meant until that moment. I felt calm, and safe, and loved, even though I didn’t deserve it. Not even a little.   
  
And I knew wherever I went, that peace would go, too. The church couldn’t shield me from my issues forever. I was going to have to face myself. And it was that sincere reckoning that would make me whole, no matter where it happened. It didn't have to be in a building, or in vows, or in an institution, or in vestments. God was in here, in my heart, and out there, too, in the world. Portable. And that meant change could happen anywhere. 

And that was it. I was released. Being a priest was over for me. I had to go. I wanted to. I just knew. 

So I came home, and I turned in my request to surrender my clerical state, and that was that. I moved out of the rectory, I took a flat, and I tried to figure out how to be a person again. I went to loads of therapy. I did yoga and started running. I went to AA and drank bad coffee and got sober, a few times. I went shopping. I got a cat. I reckoned. 

She's silent for a long time.

_What happened to all your beautiful robes?_ she asks.

I don’t know. I had to leave them behind. Like everything else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really hard chapter to write, and I'm not totally satisfied with it. There are still parts of it that I'm not sure feel authentic to the Priest. I may come back and edit some small bits as I continue turning them over in my brain.


	15. I Am Your Sweetheart Psychopathic Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe goes full Fleabag. *explosion sounds*

They're silent for ages. 

Then she gets up and digs out the whiskey bottle again. Pours herself a shot, downs it with a grimace. Then another one. 

“Whoa, slow down,” he says.

“Fuck you,” she says calmly, pointing the glass at him. Does another shot.

He watches her. 

“ _Fuck. You,”_ she says again, this time with feeling. 

He looks down at his hands. 

“Oh nononono, you don’t get to sit there looking disappointed in yourself,” she says with an acerbic laugh. “Feeling superior with all your growth and maturity and ‘peace that passeth all understanding.’ Ugggccchhh, spare me.” 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, aggravated.

“You can piss off, for a start,” she fires back. “You’ve been giving me the eyebrows and the arms and the jaw and the swagger for three fucking hours. And the whole time, _the whole fucking time,_ this was all a lark for you.”

He feels his heart constrict. “How can you say that, Phoebe?” he asks, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

“Because it’s true! If it had been fucking _Agnes_ \- or whoever else - in that alley tonight, you would’nt’ve done anything differently.” She keeps her eyes trained on his, and it guts him. “You’d be up in _her_ sister’s office right now, oozing sex and charisma all over the furniture.”

“Phoebe,” he starts.

“Stop saying my _fucking_ name!” she yells. 

She throws the shot glass at the wall. It smashes spectacularly.  
  
She looks stunned at herself. Then she sits down hard in Claire’s ergonomic rolly chair, puts her face on the desk, and bursts into tears. 

He starts to get up, but she stabs her hand out towards him. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she says through her tears.

They sit there for a long, long time. The only sound is her weeping. It rips his heart out to hear it. But it’s his to own. He sits with that.

Finally, she lifts her head and rests her chin on her arms for a moment. She grabs a wad of tissue out of the box nearby, blows her nose noisily, wipes her eyes. Takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Oof, I needed that," she says. "Been wanting to scream at you and smash things for years. How’d I do?”

He’s afraid to smile, but can’t help it. “Top marks,” he says. “Truly impressive.”

They gaze at each other.

He walks over to the desk and sits down in the chair across from her. “I’m sorry, Phoebe,” he says. “You have every right. You can keep going, if you want.”

She pauses, considering. “I think I’m good,” she says. “That was very satisfying.” 

“I’ve been waiting a long time, too,” he says, meeting her eyes. “I’ve wanted to apologize. And ask your forgiveness.” 

She looks like she might start crying again. “My forgiveness? What for?”

“For… taking advantage of you. The way I treated you was messed up, letting you get close and then pushing you away. Making sure you knew how much I wanted you, even though I had no right to you. Kissing you. Sleeping with you. It was manipulative, and it was irresponsible, and it grew out of my own brokenness. No matter how much I didn’t mean to hurt you, I still did. And I am so, so sorry.” 

She waits a beat. Then: “I’m not,” she says, dismissive.

As if he didn’t just bleed his heart onto the table between them. 

“What?”

“You didn’t take advantage of me,” she says slowly. 

“I did,” he says confidently. “I abused my position. All to fill some empty part of myself.” 

She laughs at him. Straight out laughs at him. 

“You’re _such_ an egomaniac,” she says, sitting back in the chair with her arms crossed. "Did you get that out of a book? Or was that a freebie from your bishop?"

He’s scrambling, blindsided. This is very much not how he’d pictured this going.  
  
“Look, I walked into that relationship, or whatever the hell it was, with my eyes open,” she says. He can tell the booze is starting to hit her, and the filter’s coming off. “I wanted it. I wanted you. And I got you.”  
  
She cocks her head. “And _you_ got to torture yourself. So we both got exactly what we came for.”

He opens his mouth to speak again, but she cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

“I feel a little speech coming on, actually. Don’t move,” she says. She comes around the desk, leaning against it, standing very, very close to him.

She’s towering over him, imperious, terrifying. Like fucking Boudica in an asymmetrical jumpsuit. If the warrior queen was off her face on whiskey shots.

“The problem with you,” she says, “is that you _love_ being a martyr. You _relish_ it. I think you get off on it, actually. Poor little priest, _abusing his position_ , sleeping with sad broken women, staring at the sea, endlessly pursued by foxes and/or God.”  
  
Her voice becomes fierce, eyes like steel. Fuck Boudica: she suddenly looks just like her sister.  
  
“But what you don’t realize is that no matter how broken I was, or how broken poor fucking Agnes was, we were not set as a _trap_ for you. How dare you say that another person was designed by some capricious, inscrutable God to test you. We were not plot devices in your story of redemption. We were not lost little girls with no ability to consent. We were not your hope or your salvation, and we certainly weren’t your downfall.”

She takes a deep breath. “I made my own choice. And _I_ chose _you_ .” She pushes her finger into his chest with each word. “ _I_ loved _you_ . And I know for a fact that you loved me, so don’t even fucking _start_ with the self-flagellating priest bullshit.” 

He’s completely dumbfounded, head spinning. Scales falling from his eyes. Knowing what she’s saying is true, that he’s been self-centered even in his recovery.  
  
Despite the rush of revelation, he’s still with it enough to clock the exact moment she goes from emboldened by drink to completely shit-faced. Hoo boy.

“That’s it,” she says, sniffing, crossing her arms. “That’s the speech. How do you like _them_ apples.” 

“Um,” he says. 

“Ummmm,” she mocks him, comically, flopping down on the couch. Groaning as the alcohol whacks her flat.

They stay like that for a moment. Then she sits up suddenly. “I knew I wasn’t the first. Now I know I wasn’t the last. But you did love me. Didn’t you?”

He laughs. He doesn’t let himself overthink it before replying. “Yeah, you fucking maniac. Of course I did.”  
  
He goes over to sit next to her on the sofa. She scoots her legs out of his way.

She pouts a little, curls escaping to fall in her face. “Did you love _Agnes_.” She says the name like it’s a disgusting concoction that’s dribbling from her lips a little at a time. 

He laughs again. “I already told you that I didn’t. I mean, there were feelings involved. But overall it was sort of like when you get the Tesco brand expecting it to be the same as the posh one, but there’s just something… off about it.” 

“Don’t talk shit about Agnes,” she says, bristling. “She’s my sister in arms now. We both survived you and your gigantic fucking savior complex.” 

“Jesus,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t hold back.” 

“Oh don’t worry,” she says. “I’m going to eviscerate you.” She sways and collapses back on the couch. “After I take a nap.”

She closes her eyes, but suddenly sits up again, like a jack in the box. “Oh no!” she says, looking devastated.

“What?” he asks, concerned.

“What about _Marco_ ? Do you love Marco?” A sharp intake of breath. She’s so drunk. “Does Marco love _you_?” 

He wasn’t expecting that. “I... don’t think we know yet.” 

She flops back down and sticks her feet in his lap. “Thank God.”

“What?” He absolutely cannot keep up with this.

She raises her head to look at him. “He just seems _so_ nice. I would feel terrible about you breaking up with him if you actually loved each other.”

He rests his hands on her feet. “I’m not breaking up with him, Phoebe.” 

She’s closed her eyes again and now opens one to squint at him. “Yeah you are.” 

“Well, what about Nicola then?” he asks bravely. 

She waves her hand as she drawls. “Ugh, Nicola’s so cool. We really like each other, and she’s _so_ tall, and _so_ blonde, and _so_ kinky. But” - she scrubs at her eyes with her hands - “I don’t think it’s, y’know, loooooooove.”  
  
She hoists herself up a little on her elbows and waggles her eyebrows. “We actually have an open relationship, you know. So you and I really could go to town on Claire’s desk right this second if you want.”  
  
He widens his eyes at her, cracking up. Just watching this delightful trainwreck happen in slow motion.

She hits herself in the forehead and collapses back. “Oh, shit, forgot about Marco again. Christ, why did you have to pick such a lovely boyfriend. I can’t possibly cheat on him.”

He’s laughing so hard now that tears are streaming from his eyes. “Phoebe,” he says, “hanging out with you is like riding a roller coaster at a fun fair.”

She steals another glance at him from under her lids. “How so?” she says. 

“Because the adrenaline rush is fantastic, but I mostly feel like I’m going to puke from the whiplash and the abject fucking terror,” he says. 

“Well, this roller coaster is off-duty,” she slurs. “This fun fair ride is _knackered._ ”

She turns onto her side, curling up like a child. “Keep hold of my feet, will you,” she murmurs, wiggling them under his hands. “They’re cold.”

“That’s because you’ve got holes in your stockings,” he says, pulling at one until it covers her toe again.

“Ah, fuck you,” she grumbles. “Just keep hold.” He wraps her feet in his hands, and she smiles languidly. 

He gazes at her. “Phoebe,” he says. 

“What,” she answers, eyelids heavy.

“I wouldn’t have waited for anyone else in that alley in the cold,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t have taken anyone else to my favorite restaurant, or followed them to the world’s ugliest office building in the middle of the night, or played twenty questions, or tried desperately to impress them, or confessed my many sins to them, or listened patiently to an itemized list of all the ways I’m an asshole, which, so you know, were all true. Just you. Only you.” 

She stretches lazily. “You’re just saying that because I’m so good at fucking you with my eyes.”

He chuckles. “I mean, you are. But that’s not why.”

She smiles again like the Cheshire cat. “You still love me,” she murmurs, patting at him floppily without opening her eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says. He’s suddenly not scared to admit it. Possibly because she’s almost passed out.

She points at him, her face still mashed into the sofa pillow, so close to sleep. “Say it.” 

“I love you.” 

She smiles hugely, eyes still closed. “Knew it,” she whispers. And falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In contrast to the last chapter, this one was SO fun to write. I was cracking myself up the whole time. Letting Phoebe self-destruct while also dropping truth-bombs and creating such tender openings for reconnection was delightful. 
> 
> Also, please hear her saying "Agnes" in the same voice she said "Elainnnnnnne" at the end of Season 1 Episode 6. It was so hard to figure out how to communicate in text exactly how PWB just leaks it out her mouth like excrement, even as doing so reveals how fucking jealous she is of this "other woman." Ha!


	16. That Green Light, I Want It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've all been waiting for.

When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is her.  
  
She’s sitting in a chair, looking out the windows. It’s barely dawn, the sky just awash with the first tendrils of amber and salmon pink. She’s found a blanket somewhere and has it pulled around her shoulders. There’s one over his legs on the sofa, too.

His neck is killing him, but he tries not to move so he can just watch her for a bit. Her hair is tousled with sleep, her eye make-up smudged, her expression unreadable.  
  
So fucking beautiful. 

She looks over at him. Smiles. “Hi,” she says. 

“Hi,” he says, sitting up. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit,” she admits. “My mouth tastes like something died.” She pauses, grimacing. “Sorry about all that. I'm a disaster when I'm drunk.”

He smiles. "You're a party. It was delightful," he says. “Do you… remember? Much of what we talked about?”

“Well, I remember your confession.”

“Which one?” He winces.

“All of them.” 

She comes and sits next to him on the sofa, cross-legged, facing him. He mirrors her. They watch each other for a long time. 

She pulls her knee up, resting her chin on it. He notices that she’s changed out of the jumpsuit and is wearing a half-zipped hoodie over a tank top and soft pajama bottoms. He smiles. “Where did these come from?” he asks, running his thumb over the hem of the pants. 

“Oh, these are my office jammies,” she says, sounding very serious. “You never know when you’re going to need a little nap on the job. Or when a handsome gentleman caller is going to want to snuggle with you top to toe on a couch.” 

He chuckles. “Happens a lot, does it,” he says.

“In my line of work, yes,” she answers gravely. 

His eyes fall on the tattoo peeking out from under her sweatshirt. Instinctively, he reaches out to touch it with his fingertips.

She inhales sharply. Looks down at his hand. Looks up at him.

He forces himself to slow way the hell down. To breathe. They have to pace themselves or this whole thing is going to blow up in their faces.

He moves the sweatshirt just off her shoulder, so he can study the flowers cascading down her arm. He brushes his knuckles over the black lines. Watches her shiver. 

“Tell me about this,” he says quietly. 

“Just thought it looked cool,” she says flippantly.

“Come on,” he says. He traces a rose with his finger, examining it. 

She closes her eyes. “Okay,” she says, “but you’re going to have to stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asks. “Why?” His voice teasing. Still following the pattern down her arm. 

She grabs his hand in both of hers and holds it tight. Looks him directly in the eye. “Because I’m about three seconds from devouring you whole like a fancy fucking scallop, dumbass. But I don’t want to do it on a sofa in Claire’s office while we’re both in relationships.” 

“Fair enough,” he breathes. Cocks his head. He’s enjoying having the upper hand here a bit more than he should. “Is the desk still in play, though?” 

She laughs and grabs his other hand. He enfolds her long, slender fingers in his. They sit there, just looking at their hands, stealing glances up at each other. 

“So tell me,” he says again. “About your tattoo.”

She glances down at it, then up at the ceiling. “It’s so I won’t forget,” she says. 

“Forget what?” he asks. 

She gives him an assessing look. “Do you remember what I told you that night in the confessional?”

“I… remember everything about that night,” he says, a little caught off guard. 

“Mmm,” she says. “Well, one of the things I confessed to you was that I was frightened.” 

“Scared of forgetting,” he recalls. “Forgetting people.” 

She nods at her tattoo. “This is how I make sure I won’t do that. It’s how I remember them, the marks they made on me. I can take them with me wherever I go.” She smiles. “They’re portable, like your God.” 

“Who are they?” he asks, studying the designs. It’s almost entirely floral, many different blooms wrapping all the way down to her elbow. 

She unzips her sweatshirt the rest of the way and shrugs it off, slowly, never breaking eye contact. He's so into the way he can never figure out who's in charge here. He swallows hard.

She begins to point to each of the flowers in turn:

“The hyacinth is my mum. Margaret. It’s for her birth month. The roses are hers, too. They’re what we had at her funeral, heaps of them. Fucking hated roses for a long time. I’ve had to make peace with them now, though, since they live on my arm.

“The daisies are for my best friend. Her name was Abigail, but everyone called her Boo. She died, tragically, awfully, and it was my fault.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t -” he interrupts, sympathetically.

She cuts him off with a look. “No, it was. It was my fault. That’s a story for another day, but suffice to say, you’re not the only one who fucked up bigtime.” 

“Was Boo your cafe friend?” he asks gently. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes shining. “Such a weirdo. The guinea pigs were because of her.” She points to her arm. “Look, there’s one hiding in the flowers, just there.” 

He presses his thumb onto its adorable inked nose, grinning, his fingers circling her bicep. She pulls away. “No touching,” she reprimands. “Fuck around and find out.”

“I couldn’t help it,” he protests. “Just really love guinea pigs.”

She laughs and rotates her arm to point out more of the design. “Okay, what else. Peonies from Claire and Klare’s wedding, the happiest she’s ever been, it was disgusting. Sweet peas for when little Claire came. Gladiola for my dad because I asked him to pick a flower and that’s what eventually rambled out.” 

He laughs. “Which one’s for your step-mother?” he asks in his most serious voice.

“Oh!” She grins. “I know you’re teasing, but I do actually have one for her.” She points, and then meets his eyes. “Narcissus.” 

He raises his eyebrows, in awe of the levels of petty to which he can only aspire. 

“The best bit is, she asked about it and I said it was a daffodil, and she said, ‘Oh, what a common little flower. Pity whoever that’s for.’”

He can’t help cracking up.  
  
“So what about this one?” he asks, pointing to a delicate stalk with long, bell-shaped blooms. 

She looks up at him. “That’s foxglove,” she says. 

“Foxglove,” he says, wrinkling his brow. “Is that…”

“No meaning to it,” she says lightly. “Just random.” 

They look at each other. He’s trying to keep the hope out of his eyes.

“Is it for me?” he finally asks. “The foxglove?” 

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s for you.”  
  
Gratitude floods his heart. He’s been with her, all this time. Marked on her forever, indelible, no matter where she went. No matter where they go from here.

“The thing about foxglove is that it’s beautiful, but also toxic. It can be used for healing, but too much can poison a person. The faerie legends say that foxes wore it round their necks to ward against hunters and hounds.” She smiles and narrows her eyes at him. “That seemed fitting.”

He laughs, a little unnerved. The tattoo suddenly seems less like a compliment. “Was I a hunter or a hound?” he jokes. 

“Both” she says. “But the wounds I got from you weren't mortal ones, and that was everything to me. I didn’t want to forget ever again that I could love someone, even if it hurt, even it it almost killed me. I wanted a reminder that I deserved real love. And that I would be okay on my own if that love didn’t last. I could live in my body, and stay present, even when it all went to hell."

He studies her. “I’ve noticed that. Staying present. You don’t do that thing anymore where you...”   
  
He glances in our direction. She follows his gaze, but doesn’t see us. 

“Ah” she says. “My vanishing act. Dissociation, according to my _very_ nosy therapist. Any port in a storm when you’re incapable of grief, vulnerability, and meaningful relationships.” 

“Are you better now?” he asks, concerned.

“I am,” she replies. “I found I didn’t need it any more after the night you dumped me at that bus stop. Honestly, you fucking that up was the best thing that ever happened to my mental health.” Her smile is a bit too jovial. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could go back and change everything.”

She looks down at her hands, working at a nail. She’s going to ask. He can tell. He’s ready. 

She looks up at him again. “Why did you never call,” she asks. “After you left the church. Why did you never…” 

He grasps her hands and raises them, tenting them inside his own, against his face. He kisses the inside of each wrist, right on her pulse points, feeling her heart thrumming against his lips. She shivers again. 

“I don’t know,” he says, meeting her gaze. "I was a fucking idiot.” 

“That is not at all a satisfying explanation,” she says.

“It was a year later, Phoebe,” he says helplessly. “Maybe even more than that. I had moved on in the day to day, and I assumed you had too. I couldn’t let myself hope, and I wanted you to have peace. I was still a liability. I’d finally started un-fucking my own life, and I didn’t want to ruin yours again in the process.” 

“You bastard,” she says affectionately. Her eyes have gone tender. She smiles. “Please ruin my life.” 

Suddenly, she’s practically climbing into his lap. He barely has time to think before he almost blacks out from the scent of her, the feel of her.

Sitting on her haunches, she drops her forehead against his.  
  
Her eyes are closed, and at close range, he watches the tiny movements of her eyelashes against her cheeks. He always loved watching her in the moments where her armor fell away. When she became vulnerable to him and him alone. 

He’s not going to kiss her. He’s not going to kiss her. He’s not.

They just sit there, for an age, connected, fingers woven together. Just being together. Breathing together. Resting together, but it’s an active kind of rest. Like a trap waiting to spring.  
  
“I don’t even care,” she says, so softly that he can barely hear her. “About any of it. I really don’t. We’re here now.” 

He’s overwhelmed. His heart feels like it’s going to explode with all she meant to him, all she still does, all the complicated mess they’ve been through and come out on the other side. He folds her into himself, hard, embracing her. 

She wraps her arms around him as well, burrowing her face into his neck. They’re just sitting there, unmoving, the tightest fucking hug of all time. He presses a kiss into her hair, then onto her temple. He can’t help it. 

He feels something wet on his neck, and pulls away to look at her. “Oh no,” he says, distressed, touching her face to wipe away a tear. “What’s wrong?”

She laughs, looking at him fully now. “Nothing” she says, wiping at her cheek with her shoulder so she doesn’t have to let go of him. “Sometimes my feelings just leak out my eyes.” 

Okay then. His are as well. They just sit there, marveling at each other, eyes brimming over. 

He shakes his head slightly. “Phoebe,” he says, helplessly. Like a prayer.

“Andrew,” she whispers back. She’s an inch away, her nose right next to his.

“Fuck you calling me Andrew,” he says hoarsely, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.” 

They stare for a moment, and then they’re breathing into each other again, foreheads touching, faces touching. Lips touching. 

All the tenderness and longing in the world is in that kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the slow burn was worth it, y'all! It's all downhill from here.
> 
> Also, the "fuck around and find out" line is an ode to my city of Philadelphia. If you haven't heard the phrase before, it's roughly equivalent to "play stupid games, win stupid prizes," "don't start none, won't be none," or - most succinctly - "if you mess with us, we will hurt you." :) I liked imagining Phoebe saying it in her posh accent, and it seemed a fitting tribute for the day I finished editing this chapter - the morning Pennsylvania put the election results over the top!!!


	17. Come Home to My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though, making out is so underrated.

They ruin each other’s lives for the next ten minutes.

He kisses the spot underneath her jaw, the tender place just between her collarbone and her tattoo, the lobe of her ear, her lips. Her lips. Her lips.

He hasn’t made out with anyone like this since university. Why don't people dry hump each other any more?! It’s wonderful. It’s fan-fucking-tastic. 

And fucking FUCK they have to stop soon. 

Why though? He can’t seem to remember. 

Things are about to get extremely dodgy when she pulls away. Her pupils are dilated and her face is rubbed raw from his stubble and she’s literally panting. All of which he likes.

“Jesus,” she says. “I don’t. I just. Um.” 

“Same,” he says. They laugh, and half sit up. Still gazing at each other, grinning ludicrously, like teenagers drunk on a cheap bottle of grog.

“Oh my God,” she says. Still not quite able to catch her breath. “I fucking love you.” 

“I was worried,” he says, actually relieved. “You hadn’t said it yet.” 

She slaps him lightly on the face. Which it turns out he also likes. “You deserve every moment I made you wait,” she says, appraising him smugly. 

She slowly disentangles herself from their embrace, holding his gaze, bumping him in all the right places as she does. She’s completely disheveled, and he’s sure he is, too.  
  
The pheromones are still humming in the air between them. What is it about how she smells? He doesn’t know and frankly doesn’t much care. 

“Phoebe,” he says, a bit brokenly, resting his head on the arm of the couch. “What are we going to do?”

She takes a shaky breath, pushing her hair out of her face. “I mean,” she says. “I have a few ideas. Which I’d like to get to fairly quickly, if it’s all the same to you.”

He smiles, but it’s pained. “That’s not what I’m talking about. We have other people to think of.” He pauses, his brain churning. He feels himself going a bit frantic. “What are we doing? Is this a thing, or a…? What is this?” 

She puts her hands on his face, very gently. Steadies him. Looks right into him. Like that fucking fox on the day he walked away from everything he knew. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “It's okay not to know." 

He takes a deep breath. The thing is, he does know.

He gathers her in by the waist, tracing her skin where her shirt has rucked up. Puts his forehead to hers again, tries to get as close to her as humanly possible.  
  
It’s like actual hunger. He can’t think about anything else but the ache at the core of him.

“Come home to me, Phoebe,” he says, molecules away from her lips. 

She grins into him. “Okay,” she says. “Need your new address, though.”

“No, not that,” he says, getting impatient. “I mean… yes, definitely that. But -” He pulls away from her, threads her hands with his. Looks at her with all the intention and resolve he wishes he'd mustered up years ago. “Come home to me. Come home to my heart.” 

She nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her arms around him. “Already there,” she murmurs. “Took a long holiday, but where else would I go?”

They stay like that for a long time. 

> _In his mind, he travels to another bright morning, far in the past.  
>    
>  He woke up that day completely coked out on love, bathed in sunlight, soul flayed open. Just as he'd known would happen. Choosing it anyway. _ _  
> _ _  
> _ _They’d stayed in bed for a long time. Talking quietly, watching their hands entwine, just being. He’d tangled his fingers in the necklace she always wore, listening intently as she told him that it had been her mother’s, but that she didn’t want to talk about it. She’d traced the scar on his shoulder, and he explained how his father had raged at him, struck him with a belt for leaving the milk out of the fridge when he was 8 years old._ _  
> _ _  
> _ _They’d kissed, and laughed about the inevitable family drama the day would hold, and fucked each other senseless again, still with all the urgency and tender longing he knew would never, ever dissipate no matter how often it happened. They'd exchanged numbers, finally, her laughing at his animated description of Claire surrendering the address with much huffing and eye-rolling. They'd daydreamed up vague and romantic plans that had insane implications for their actual lives. Let’s get through the wedding, he said, and then we can figure this out._
> 
> _He never wanted to stop talking with her, being with her, worshipping her. She was the alpha and the omega for him._
> 
> _And that was terrifying. It meant he was done loving and serving the Lord in the way that provided him with so much structure, so much stability, so much peace. For an addict who didn't know he was an addict, there was nothing more frightening, more disruptive. If he gave into this hope, he’d never recover. It would be for life._ _  
> _ _  
> __So ultimately, he’d let fear rule him. He let it string out all day long, torturing himself, trying to work himself up to a decision and knowing he never would. But he did know he wouldn't be strong enough to resist if she asked him to leave the church, and so that's what he'd prayed for._
> 
> _At the bus stop, he'd known right away that she wouldn't do it. She loved him, but she wasn't going to fuck up his life, not after he'd begged her not to so many times. She wasn't going to make him beholden to her.  
>    
>  So he'd let her let him go. And even as he walked away, having reassured them both that they would heal, he'd begged God for a sign that he should turn back. _
> 
> _And there wasn't one. No paintings fell in his path, no foxes followed to herd him back._
> 
> _He walked all the way home a wrecked and lonely priest of a man,_ _grieving something that hadn't even begun._

“What if this doesn’t work?” he breathes now, bringing himself back to the present, tears starting to well in his eyes again. “We were both so broken when we fell in love. Maybe we only fell in love _because_ we were broken.”

She looks at him almost pityingly. “Do you really think that’s what’s happening here?” she asks. “You can be as normal and healthy as you want. I’m still in love with you.”

He kisses her again, because there are no words left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter was originally supposed to be the last one, but I can't let these guys go yet. I'll post Chapter 18 shortly, but there will probably be a bit of a gap after that while I do some more writing.
> 
> Also, I want to give a hat tip to the Fleabag Situation podcast, which I highly recommend! The depth of their character analysis has given me so much to chew on, and I've incorporated some of their observations and theories into my version of the Priest as well.


	18. Honey, I’ll Be Seeing You Down Every Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ridiculously heart-warming and horny happy ending. 
> 
> (This was originally going to be the last chapter of this fic. But I just couldn't stop with these two, so there's more to come as soon as I find time to write it.)

They’re smushed up against each other in the slowly revolving front door of the world’s ugliest office building. It’s both terribly awkward and weirdly erotic. That combination is right in Phoebe’s wheelhouse, so he can tell she’s quite enjoying it. 

The door eventually deposits them onto the sidewalk. They face each other, grinning. 

“Bernie’s very nice,” she says, gesturing back towards the lobby. She digs in her handbag and unearths a pouch of crisps. “He knows how to rig the vending machine and got us these. _In case we were hungry_ , he said.” She waggles her eyebrows and opens the bag, offering it to him first.

He waves it away, laughing. “I didn’t have Bernie pegged for a romantic,” he says, then glances at her playfully from the corner of his eye. “I wonder what he’ll do with the security footage from Claire’s office.” 

She almost chokes on the prawn cocktail crisps she just stuffed into her mouth. “Oh God, I didn’t even think of that,” she says, eyes wide. “Well, I’m glad we had this little reunion, because Claire is literally going to dismember me. Nice knowing you.”

They both laugh, then gaze at each other for a while, her munching on her snack. Even if he never stops looking at her for the rest of his life, it won’t be long enough.

“So what now?” she asks, a little hesitant. 

He considers. “I need to go home,” he says. “I have to feed the cat. Then I should text my sponsor and probably go to a meeting.” He pauses and clears his throat. “Then I ought to call Marco. And have a conversation.”

“That’s going to suck,” she responds, sympathetic, licking the crisp powder off her fingers. “The Marco part, I mean. Please tell him how sorry I am for stealing his boyfriend. I know he’ll bounce back, though, he really is lovely.” 

He huffs out a laugh. “What about you?” he asks. 

“The same,” she says on a sigh. “Claire was right, Nicola and I pretend not to care, but we are actually invested. I’m not looking forward to that discussion.” 

“She’ll be all right, too,” he says. “I mean... incredibly attractive people usually are.” She pulls a face at him but can’t help laughing.

She balls up her crisp packet and sticks it in his pocket. He chuckles. They hold hands again, studiously avoiding each other’s eyes. 

“And then what?” she finally asks. Always the brave one. 

“Well,” he says slowly, as if he’s making it up as he goes along rather than having hatched this plan in great detail last night while watching her sleep, like a total fucking creep. “I was thinking that you could come over to mine. And we could get some food. And watch TV. I’ll even let you do _The Bachelor_. And we could have another chat. About regular things.”

“I’d like that,” she says, almost shyly. Then knits her eyebrows at him. “Is that all, though? Just a casual Sunday night hang?”

“It seems wise to take it slow, don’t you think?” he says with mock gravity. She rolls her eyes at his restraint and maturity.

Quickly, before he loses his nerve, he pulls her to him, their bodies flush. Looks her dead in the eye.

He assesses whether he’s actually going to let this shit out of his head and into the world. It got him in a lot of trouble in the past. But this is different, and he decides he can’t not.  
  
“I mean, if you prefer, we could always -” He leans into her and begins to whisper, feeling the vibration of his voice buzzing against her ear. Senses her tense and tremble as her body responds to the litany of filthy possibilities he’s murmuring into her hair. Kisses the vulnerable spot under her jaw again, purring absolute smut into the secret places along her neck. 

“Or a casual hang is fine, too,” he says with a shrug, releasing her. “Up to you.”

Whatever he was expecting her face to look like after that, it wasn’t this. She’s pissed off. Wow, he’s usually not this bad at reading a situation. His heart starts racing.

“Don’t ever do that again!” she admonishes him, smacking him on the arm. Hard.

“Shit!” he says, fumbling awkwardly, rubbing his arm. “I’m sorry! You seemed into it! I haven’t, um… said that kind of thing to anyone in a while, and -”

She starts laughing and can’t stop. She doubles over. 

He has no idea what to do. This is a complete fucking disaster.

She recovers and stands up fully, wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh my God,” she gasps. “Your face.”

He’s getting annoyed. He just gave the dirty-talking performance of a lifetime - like, seriously, not to toot his own horn, but where’s his fucking BAFTA. And here she is, jeering at him?! 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” She tries to pull him towards her, but he stiff-arms her a bit. “I was totally into it!” 

“That’s not what it feels like,” he says, his pride badly bruised.

“Shit, no, I’m so sorry,” she says, genuinely apologetic, but still smiling a bit around the eyes. “I’m truly not laughing at you. That was…” She clears her throat and puts her hands on his face. “Honestly, I can’t believe they let you be a priest with a mouth like that. You were wasted on homilies. Really, I’m going to have to change my knickers. ”

He allows himself a small smile, but he’s still confused. “So what was all that about then?”

She starts up giggling again. “I have fucking… _prawn cocktail breath_ , you asshole!” she says. 

He stares at her, arms crossed. Then a bubble of laughter leaks out, slowly overtaking him until it’s coursing through his whole body. “ _That’s_ what you were thinking about just then,” he gasps out. “Your prawn breath.” 

“I couldn’t help it!” she protests. “You were being ten very excellent shades of slutty, a hair’s breadth from my revolting, salty, MSG-coated tongue! It’s so embarrassing! _For me!_ ” 

She smacks him once more, and they collapse into each other, totally unable to compose themselves. He wraps her up tight again, and she shrieks in delight.  
  
“Fuck off!” she laughs, trying to wriggle away. “Just leave me here to die of exposure!”

He wrestles her a bit until he's got her right where he wants her. He grasps her chin and nuzzles her with his nose, then kisses her firmly. She keeps her lips tight, still laughing.  
  
“Come on, Phoebe,” he murmurs, teasing, chasing her face lazily with his own. “I’ve woken up next to you several times now, in case you’d forgotten. I’ve borrowed your toothbrush. I’ve seen you naked. We’ve cried together, gotten drunk, cleaned ourselves up after sex. I’ve actually _done_ those ten shades of slutty things to you.”

“And then some,” she murmurs. 

“And then some,” he agrees, pulling away just enough that he can look at her. “That’s intimacy, Phoebe. It’s messy. Gross. Humiliating.” He tucks her hair behind her ear. “Crisp-breath does not scare me.” 

He kisses her again, just to show her. She smiles, returning it this time, resting her back against the window of the office building. He puts a hand on the glass next to her, hemming her in with his body. She shivers.

He takes a breath. “I mean, prawn is decidedly not my favorite,” he says. “For future reference.” 

She smacks him again before grabbing him by the neck and pulling him close for another kiss. He leans into her. He’s getting that lovely blacked-out buzzy feeling again. 

He’s just starting to wonder if they’re violating any public decency laws when there’s a sharp rap on the window next to his head. 

They whirl around. It’s Bernie. He’s frowning intensely at them from inside the building.

“Do you need any help, miss?” he shouts through the thick glass.

“Oh, no thank you, Bernie,” she says politely, adjusting her coat. 

“Is this man bothering you?” Bernie glowers. Which is actually pretty intimidating, he has to admit. 

“No, Bernie,” she answers reassuringly. “This is all very consensual. I’m fine.” 

Bernie stomps back to the lobby desk, giving our man another glare for good measure.

They turn back to each other, and she laughs with such delighted astonishment that he thinks he might implode, or explode, or both. 

Her laugh is hope and joy and love and peace all rolled up together. It’s every fruit of the spirit in one go.  
  
(Well, maybe not the self-control bit. Although he’s pretty impressed with their restraint, all things considered.)

“Okay,” she says, recovering herself and straightening up. “Enough canoodling. Things to do.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I can’t just stand around all day letting you exhale your prawn dust down my throat.” 

She laughs, then grows serious. Her eyes go a bit shifty. She's worried.

“What?” he asks. 

“We’re really going to do this, aren’t we,” she says. 

“Yeah,” he says. “We are.”

She pauses, looking off into the park across the road. “Are you sure?” she asks quietly. 

He’s not sure how to respond. He tries to figure out what she’s getting at. 

“I just don’t want to get left behind again,” she says in a rush, a bit wildly. She puts her hands on his forearms. “I don’t want to be the one who hopes. I can't carry it this time, the weight of it. It’s too much.” 

He watches her eyes well up. “Phoebe,” he says. “Listen to me. We’re going to leave each other for a few hours. We’re going to handle our stuff and have some hard conversations. And then I’m going to call you and ask you to come over.” He grips her forearms, too, and dips down to look at her. “I promise. I swear it on my life.” 

She wipes her nose with her sleeve and lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can trust that,” she says. “I just don’t know if I can do all this again.”

He nods. “That’s okay,” he says calmly. “That makes sense.” 

She shakes her head. “Why are you so fucking understanding?” she says, laughing through her tears. 

He makes a face at her. "They teach it in priest school. Day one,” he says, which makes her laugh even harder. He embraces her again, and after a moment, she relaxes into it. 

“My love,” he says into her hair. “Nobody is more hopeful than me right now. I’ll hold it for us both. It’s my turn.”

They pull away and spend another infinite moment looking at one another. He quirks a smile at her. 

“Go on, now,” he says. “You first.”

“What?” she says. 

“You first,” he repeats. “You walk away this time. Go on.” He puts his hands in his pockets and plants himself on the pavement. 

She hesitates, then starts walking in the direction of her home. She gets about ten steps away and pauses, turning to look back at him curiously.

“Keep going,” he says, keeping his voice light. “I’ll be right here.”

She smiles and walks a bit further, pausing to turn again, suspicious this time. 

“I’m not doing anything dodgy,” he says, laughing. “Whenever you turn around, I’ll be here. I won’t leave until you can’t see me anymore. That’s the deal.” He grows serious. “I’ll stay this time. I’ll carry the hope.” 

He claps his hand over his heart. She returns the gesture, then keeps walking. 

Halfway down the block, she turns just slightly to look back at him, raising her hand in a small wave. He raises his hand, too. But he knows they’re not saying goodbye. 

This is see you later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope folks enjoy this bizarro mix of slapstick humor, confusing tone shifts, and sickeningly hopeful departures. I have no idea if it works, but I decided to just go with it! 
> 
> Also, I'm truly terrible at writing smut. I just find the whole thing so embarrassing (even though I love reading it!). So I decided to leave to your imagination whatever it was our man whispered to Phoebe on the street in front of God, Bernie, and anyone else who happened to be walking by. 
> 
> Lastly, we're getting a little hint at some of our Priest's pre-church sex shenanigans in this chapter, which I'll explore more down the road. How did he get so good at talking dirty, anyway?! Hmm.


End file.
